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lemonlover1110 · 3 months ago

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𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫

Satoru Gojo

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Summary: Satoru is your best friend's boyfriend, you shouldn't like him.

Warnings: MDNI, Angst, Cheating (on Satoru, not from reader), Smut, Oral Sex (m. receiving), Vaginal Sex, Daddy Kink, Spanking, Fluff, Hair descriptions for reader

*This is another commission for @mew4-ever18, y'all can thank her again! I hope you guys enjoy because it's truly a wild but fun ride🙂‍↕️

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

You’re not sure why you sit with them instead of just being in your room. They’re here for your best friend, not you. You have no business being with them. It feels like you’re in high school all over again, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst them.

Every other night you’re fine with them being here, but tonight you’re out of it. Your eyes keep darting to Satoru and Ali, both sitting so close together that you almost feel upset. Ali is your best friend– She’s been by your side for as long as you can remember. She’s like a sister… Yet you have conflicting feelings.

Whenever you look at her and Satoru together, you feel upset. A feeling that is quickly followed by remorse. You shouldn’t like your best friend’s boyfriend; alas, you can’t control your feelings. Even if you do act on your feelings (you only have a tiny crush either way, it’s no big deal), he wouldn’t reciprocate them. Ali is simply stunning– It’s not that you’re ugly, but your whole life you’ve watched her get praised for her beauty. She simply stands out while you’re just there. Just like this moment.

“Hey, are you okay?” You hear your name from Satoru’s mouth, interrupting you from your trance of thoughts. Ali giggles, whispering something in his ear which makes the man chuckle. You unintentionally roll your eyes before nodding.

“Oh my god, guys. I forgot to tell you.” Ali begins, drawing everyone’s attention. There’s a grin on her face as she says, “It’s mine and Satoru’s third month anniversary.”

“Woah, for a moment I thought that you had something important to say.” Suguru, who sits beside you, comments. Ali clicks her tongue, sticking out her middle finger at the man. Suguru chuckles in response.

“It’s important! Satoru is going to propose soon.” She announces, sticking up her left hand. Satoru’s eyes widen, and he scoots away from her on the couch. Though they’re details that you don’t notice. You’re just staring at Ali’s ring finger, knowing that it’ll be adorned by a rock soon enough. You know she’s very influential, and gets what she wants in the end.

“She’s joking.” Satoru quickly clarifies but you know that it’s only a matter of time before Ali gets her way. In all of your years of knowing Ali, you’ve never seen her get turned down. She isn’t serious now, but she’s dropping hints that she wants it to happen soon; if she doesn’t get her way soon, the relationship will come to an end.

“I guess.” Ali chuckles before kissing Satoru’s cheek. It makes you take a deep breath and look away once again. You make brief eye contact with Shoko before quickly looking away as an uneasiness takes over you. You hear Ali ask, “It won’t hurt to think about it, right?”

“You’re still young, you have a lot of time.” Shoko chimes in, earning a glare from your best friend. That wasn’t the input she needed, therefore, Ali looks at you.

“It wouldn’t.” You force the words out of your mouth. You can barely look at Ali’s face. Throughout the day whenever you look at her you just think of last night. You left your room to get some water and heard a rather obscene scene. You are rightfully uncomfortable… But you’re also sad.

You know you have no right to feel sad about this, but you can’t help the feeling. Every time you look at her you just can hear her moan his name over and over again while he groans from pleasure. You froze in place, and heard more than you had to last night. You felt sick, and that memory replaying in your head doesn’t help you.

Your breath hitches as you hear all of them laugh. You look around the room, feeling as if it gets smaller by the second. You can’t stand it. You stand up from the couch, and awkwardly smile. You look back and forth between your best friend and her boyfriend before you tell them,

“I’m going to lay down. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

No one says anything, letting you leave the room without a protest. It’s not like you fit in the group either way. You feel like absolute shit, but it’s not their fault. Your personality just doesn’t match with theirs, and that’s not on them.

You lock yourself in your room and immediately bury your head in a pillow, letting the tears flow. An overwhelming flux of emotions flows through you. You like to think of yourself as confident, brave, and strong but right now you’re simply the worst.

You shouldn’t like your best friend’s boyfriend and you shouldn’t be upset at the fact that you heard them have sex the night before. Ali’s been with you through thick and thin, and this is how you’re repaying her.

Meanwhile, Satoru is staring at your bedroom door before looking back at Ali. He asks, “Shouldn’t you check up on her? She’s acting weird tonight.”

“That’s just how she is. She’s always a little weird.” Ali rolls her eyes, and a slight frown comes on Satoru’s face. Maybe he shouldn’t overstep, Ali knows you better than anyone but the comment still feels odd.

“Isn’t that rude? She’s your best friend.” Satoru reminds her, and she clicks her tongue.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Satoru is in his mother’s hospital room, watching as the one that gave birth to him sleeps. Suguru sits down next to him, afraid to make conversation since he doesn’t want to wake the woman up. Suguru is just there for emotional support.

Satoru doesn’t know what happened. He was on his way to visit his girlfriend, and his father suddenly called. His mother was ill, and they were on the way to the hospital. And here he is now… Waiting to talk to her. They’ve been slipping her in and out of the room to run tests on her, and the moments that she’s in the room she can’t stay awake.

Satoru has been spending most of his days at the hospital for the past week. He’s sick of it, but he’s not leaving his mother alone– She wouldn’t be alone either way, his father is also practically living in the hospital, but Satoru still won’t leave. He texts Ali to kill time, though the conversations quickly get boring and he has to frequently change the topic.

“I’m going to get something to eat.” Suguru says, standing up from his seat. He’s been glancing at Satoru’s phone, snooping in a conversation that doesn’t concern him whatsoever. A conversation that’s too boring for him to keep reading, which is a lot to say.

“I’ll come with.” Satoru stands up as well, following Suguru’s lead. Satoru cracks his knuckles as they leave the room, commenting, “I’m so bored in there.”

“I saw you talking to Ali–” Suguru quickly bites his tongue when he realizes that he’s admitted to snooping. He can’t shut up now, he’s already admitted to his crime, he might as well say what’s on his mind. Suguru throws his arm over Satoru’s shoulder, slightly leaning on him as they walk to the elevator. “She’s pretty, bro. I’ll give you that but… She’s kind of superficial.”

“Why are you staring at my phone?” Satoru side-eyes his best friend, and Suguru shrugs. Satoru rolls his eyes at the lack of response before quickly defending his girlfriend. “You know she’s better in person.”

“She’s not. She only ever talks about herself, and it’s never something interesting.” Suguru points out, which makes a frown appear on Satoru’s face. That isn’t true at all– At least Satoru hasn’t noticed and he’s quick to pick up on stuff. Suguru continues trying to get his point across, “And I know she has… What, two million followers on Instagram? Like yeah, she’s pretty but apart from that she has nothing.”

“She has other qualities.” Satoru says as they both get to the elevator. He presses on the downwards arrow button, and they begin the long wait for either elevator.

“Like what? Please name one.” Suguru responds, and Satoru takes a minute to think about it. The elevator opens, and the men step aside to let the people out before entering the lift. The conversation dies down at that moment since it’s awkward to talk about Ali’s lack of personality when three other people surround them.

When they get to the first floor, Suguru brings up the topic again. Satoru’s annoyed, unwilling to listen at this point, and it’s written all over his face but Suguru does not care, “You deserve better. She’s not the type you’d want to marry.”

“How would you even know that?” Satoru scoffs, and Suguru rolls his eyes. Suguru knows that Satoru isn’t going to actually listen. Satoru is defensive about this, and Suguru can’t entirely blame him. Ali is still his girlfriend regardless, Suguru knows that he’d react the same way if Satoru began to bad talk Shoko.

“She treats her best friend like shit. She treats someone that she’s known her whole life like shit, and you think that’s the woman you should marry?” Suguru answers, which makes Satoru roll his eyes.

“Let’s just drop it.” Satoru ends up saying, and Suguru sighs defeatedly.

“Yeah. Let’s just eat something.” Suguru agrees. He checks the time and realizes he has to get going soon, “I’m leaving you after, I’m going to see Shoko.”

After Suguru leaves, Satoru is left to go back upstairs alone. He doesn’t mind the solitude, it’s not like he was talking to Suguru either way. He’ll probably ponder on Suguru’s words, and try to make an excuse for his girlfriend. Though if Satoru is being honest… He doubts the relationship is going to last long. He’s turned a one night stand into a regular thing– But maybe there’s a future in the relationship. He likes to be optimistic about things, even if it’s a relationship that doesn’t have much of a future.

“Satoru!” He’s met by a voice that catches him off guard. He’s a little surprised to be met by his girlfriend, but a smile comes to his face as he sees her face. Though the smile fades when he looks over her outfit.

Satoru isn’t one to police what his girlfriend wears. He’s fine with whatever that makes her happy. He’s not the type to get jealous or control that aspect of her life… But he recognizes when an outfit is inappropriate for an occasion.

She wears a red cut out dress, as if she’s about to go out clubbing. She smiles brightly at him, and Satoru can’t help but feel bad. She’s a little ditzy sometimes. She doesn’t mean any harm.

“What are you doing here?” Satoru sounds rather awkward, something that she doesn’t seem to notice. Satoru would be more welcoming if she looked a little more decent for the place.

“I just want to visit my mother-in-law.” She says which makes Satoru cringe. He won’t correct her, he knows she’s just joking. He thinks she’s just joking. She gives him a tight hug, something that a few minutes ago he thought would be comforting; it’s anything but… But it’s not her fault.

“She’s sleeping.” Satoru answers as he pulls away. Ali pouts, mimicking a sad expression. It feels like she’s mimicking considering how she exaggerates it. No– Satoru is just overthinking everything after his conversation with Suguru. The dumbass was trying to brainwash Satoru.

“Do you want to go out to dinner then?” She asks, as if it’s the only reason why she’s here. Satoru shakes his head which makes a slight frown appear on the woman’s face.

“I already ate something at the cafeteria.” Satoru responds.

“I’ll go get something then. I’m hungry.” She replies, and Satoru tries not to question it. Did she come here for the sole purpose of stealing Satoru’s attention? No, he’s just letting Suguru get to his head. Though he’d admit that it’s odd for her to show up at the hospital and immediately ask him out to eat.

She bites down her lip before asking Satoru, “Do you want to come with?”

“I’m going to my mom’s room. You can come back after you’re finished.” Satoru answers, and she rolls her eyes. Satoru is going to pretend like he didn’t catch that weird reaction. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him. She leaves without a word, letting Satoru walk back to his mother’s room to wait by her side.

Satoru is sure he’s just reading into things as he sits down besides his mother once again. Stupid Suguru got in his head. The idiot has a way to mess with Satoru, it works ninety percent of the time. Though Satoru knows that he can’t entirely blame Suguru since the man just mentioned certain behaviors that Satoru himself noticed. Ali is quite a bitch with you, and if Satoru were anyone else, he’d give you the advice to cut her off.

Perhaps you’re just sticking around because you’re roommates with Ali. He doesn’t know the extent of your relationship either, he’s barely even scratched the surface so it’s not a matter that he has an opinion on. Ali is rising to fame as an influencer, and she’s letting the attention get to her head so maybe this is just some new behavior on her end.

Satoru begins to question every little thing about Ali in the span of thirty minutes. Maybe she really is superficial like Suguru claims– Who is Satoru even trying to convince? Ali is most definitely superficial, he’s known about this since their very first date.

He grabs his phone to distract himself, he’s currently questioning his relationship because of Suguru’s dumb words. He can’t let the little shit get to his head, Suguru loves to do this every time Satoru has a girlfriend and it always ends up with Satoru breaking up with his girl.

Satoru’s eyes narrow as he sees a new story from Ali. His thumb hovers over the screen as the man builds up the courage to click on it. She’s posing seductively for the camera, and Satoru sighs as he sees the story from a couple of minutes ago. Maybe it’s just a video from a couple of weeks ago; she’s just posting content to keep her followers engaged.

Satoru taps on the screen, seeing she’s posted multiple things in the last thirty minutes. Before getting to the hospital and while she’s clearly in the building. Just five minutes ago she posted a mirror selfie in the hospital bathroom, and Satoru can’t help but frown. She’s a bit ditzy but she can’t be this unaware, right?

It clicks in his head at that moment. Suguru isn’t trying to brainwash him, he’s just pointing out what’s fairly obvious. Ali isn’t here to actually check up on Satoru’s mom, she’s here for another reason. She just wants Satoru’s attention.

He stands up from his chair and walks out of the room. He can’t sit there knowing she’s making a fool out of herself, and in the process, embarrassing him. He has to talk to her, ask for her to leave before she makes a complete and utter fool out of him as well.

Satoru gets to the cafeteria quickly, his eyes searching around the place for his girlfriend. Luckily, he doesn’t have to look for too long before his eyes land on her as she poses for a photo. She’s treating the hospital cafeteria as a photo studio, he can’t look at her for too long without embarrassment filling him inside. His eyes don’t wander too far before landing on an all too familiar face.

Satoru’s breath hitches, gulping as he stares back at his father. His father’s eyes then fall on Ali. Satoru just should turn around and not acknowledge her at all– If the situation is embarrassing now, he can only imagine it’s ten times worse if his father finds out that this oblivious woman is Satoru’s girlfriend.

“Pookie! Come here!” Ali yells once her eyes fall on Satoru, making it loud enough for everyone to hear. Satoru can still turn around and pretend like he doesn’t know her, especially since he sees his father’s brow furrows. Yeah… It’s best if Satoru turns around and apologizes later.

“Satoru! Are you ignoring me?!” She calls out as she walks over to the man. Satoru freezes in his spot, making eye contact with his father who shakes his head disappointedly.

“Allison, now it’s not the time.” Satoru says through gritted teeth, not being able to even look at her.

“What? What are you saying?” She sounds offended, and frankly, she should be. Satoru looks ashamed to be near her because he is. He feels all eyes on him since Ali isn’t exactly someone that blends into the crowd. Is this what it feels to be self-conscious?

Satoru grabs her hand and practically drags her out of the place. She posters him, demanding he tell her what’s going on the entire time until they’re finally outside of the building. Satoru lets go and she crosses her arms, huffing and puffing as Satoru runs a hand through his hair.

He can’t lose his cool.

“Why are you here?” He asks, taking a deep breath to ensure he remains calm and collected.

“I told you–” She begins only to be quickly interrupted by Satoru.

“Why are you actually here? Actually. First of all you come here looking like– That. You tell me you want to see my mother but immediately ask me to go out and get something together. Instead of coming back up you begin to smugly post on your social media,” Satoru is too frustrated to care about the words that leave his lips. “You’re posting for your millions of followers while you’re in a hospital. You’re supposed to be visiting my mother and you look like this.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” She’s trying to play dumb, looking down at the attire that is clearly inappropriate for the occasion. She’s ignoring everything else, knowing that she can easily win the argument if she only focuses on one detail.

“For fuck’s sake, Allison. This is a hospital not a club. You’re here to visit my sick mother, or what? Did you have other plans tonight?” Satoru argues and she scoffs.

“Excuse me for trying to be a good girlfriend. For the record, I do want to check up on my future mother-in-law. Next time I’ll just leave you alone.” She tries to sound threatening which makes Satoru roll his eyes. Before he can get another word in, she begins to walk away. She’s not going back inside, opting to walk to her car instead.

Satoru doesn’t care to stop her, instead he’s agreeing with everything Suguru mentioned. Maybe he should reconsider everything about this relationship. But first… He has to go back inside and face his father.

As Ali and Satoru’s six month mark comes by, you notice that Satoru comes around less often. Satoru, who would come around every few days, barely shows up every two weeks. You think it started after Ali began to joke about getting engaged, but you know why Satoru is distant. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

You remember catching her before going out, telling you that she’s about to go meet Satoru at the hospital– Before you could even question her outfit she told you that she was hoping he’d take her out to eat. It’s shocking that he didn’t break up with her right then and there, but you guess that he likes her so much that he can’t bring himself to end things.

Though as you walk past her bedroom, you hear that some things don’t change. No matter how bad she screws things up, this detail will never change. They could be a little less loud though, they’re not alone. Or they could simply go to Satoru’s apartment since he lives alone. But no, they choose to come here.

You should probably cover your ears as you walk to the kitchen to get some water, but you’re unphased by this. It’s not the first time it happens, and it certainly won’t be the last. You won’t lie and say that you aren’t uncomfortable by the sound of it, and perhaps you’re searching for an apartment to move away soon because of how upsetting it is. But you’re slowly getting used to it.

“Oh, fuck! It’s so good!” She moans and you let out a sigh. She has no consideration for you. It’s fine, you’ll go back to your room and put on some headphones to block it out. But you freeze in your steps when you hear a voice that is not the one of her boyfriend.

You feel as if your heart is about to beat out of your chest as you come to the realization– But no, you’re not going to get involved. You grab your glass of water and walk back to your bedroom, locking the door.

You plop down on the bed, grabbing your phone to check on your social media. You have a feeling that Ali isn’t there with Satoru, and you want to check what he’s doing tonight. Satoru usually posts what he’s doing for the night in the most subtle ways. If he hasn’t posted anything, then he’s probably with Ali and you should ignore the whole situation; but you’re quickly proven right when you see Satoru posting with Suguru.

The pictures could be from a different night though, but you notice that they were posted just a few minutes ago. Your eyes are wide, hands shaky as you stare at the picture. Regardless if they’re from nights ago or tonight, Satoru couldn’t have posted this while he’s getting busy with Ali.

You turn off your phone and close your eyes at the realization that your best friend is cheating on her boyfriend.

You try to convince yourself that the previous night is a misunderstanding. You’re just getting the situation wrong, Ali would not do that to her boyfriend. But your best friend quickly proves you wrong when you walk out of your bedroom and see a random man in your kitchen, looking most indecent. He’s covered in love bites, confirming that you weren’t wrong in your assumptions

You almost feel like a prude for covering your eyes when you look in his direction– You would think she would try to hide it the best she could, but she doesn’t care. She’s letting him walk around freely in your apartment, even though you know she’s awake.

“Allison.” You knock on her bedroom door, and within a few seconds she opens it. Her sandy blonde hair is neatly kept, letting you know that she’s been awake for a while. She’s had enough time to get ready so she’s certainly had enough time to kick the random man that’s in your house out.

“Hi…” She bites her lip, looking guilty as ever. Just one swift look at you, and she knows that you’re not happy with her. She grabs your hand and pulls you inside before shutting the door. She doesn’t want her loverboy to hear what she has to say.

“Ali, what did you do?” You’re stern, making it clear that this isn’t a situation that you’re willing to laugh about. Maybe if Satoru deserved it you could turn a blind eye to this, but you can’t. Satoru is a great boyfriend to her.

“I’m sorry.” Tears begin to well up in her eyes as she mutters an apology. An apology that should be to Satoru and not you. “I don’t know what came over me… I told him I loved him and he just– Just ignored me.”

“Ali, that’s no reason to betray your boyfriend.” You argue, and she buries her face between her hands. She cries, only making you feel guilty for even questioning her actions. You cross your arms and look away, refusing to feel guilty for her disloyalty.

“Please don’t tell him– I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again.” She pleads and you feel a heavy weight settle in your heart. No, you should tell him. Satoru doesn’t deserve this.

Ali wraps her arms around you, resting her face on your shoulder as she continues to sob. “Please, you’re the only person I can count on.”

“Ali–” You begin, but you cut yourself off. You take a deep breath, before agreeing, “Fine. I’ll keep your secret.”

Guilt is eating you alive. The very next day, Satoru comes over and you can’t look him in the eye. You ignore him the entire time, and he notices something is up with you, but he won’t question it. If you don’t want to talk to him, then it’s your own issue.

You feel like the responsibility of confessing to him is on your shoulders. But you don’t want to betray your best friend by doing so. She’s made her own decisions about her relationship, if you snitch the blame shouldn’t fall on you… But you still feel like it isn’t your position to tell. You’re not friends with Satoru at all, you’re friends with Ali. You feel like you’d be betraying her, not only because she’s your best friend but also because you happen to like her boyfriend.

You’re nearly driving yourself insane as you think about it. Ultimately, you decide to stay out of it. Satoru is going to find out in his own way eventually; you’re a firm believer that the truth always comes to light eventually, and in this situation you refuse to be the catalyst. And you certainly don’t want to lose your friendship by telling him.

That is until the doorbell rings, a little later than usual on a Tuesday night. Ali isn’t home, leaving you alone to welcome the uninvited guest.

“Satoru, what are you doing here?” You question, surprised at his presence. He should know that Ali is at a brand event right now, after all, she’s gloating about it on any and every social media platform. “Ali isn’t here right now. She won’t be here in a while.”

“Actually, I’m here to talk to you.” He confesses, and you feel your stomach churn. You feel nauseous as guilt takes over you. Does he know? Is that why he’s here? He’s most definitely here to question you, and you feel nervous.

“Oh… What is it?” You try to smile to hide the fact that you’re freaking out. But it comes off as disingenuous, and Satoru is not an idiot that won’t notice it. He’ll choose to ignore it though.

“Can I come in?” He asks, and you move to the side, inviting him to the apartment. He steps inside, and looks around the place. There’s a different vibe to the apartment when Ali is gone… It feels oddly comforting.

“Do you want anything to drink?” You offer as you shut the door. But he shakes his head, and you feel oddly relieved by that answer. He’s not going to be here for a long time, so he’s not going to bring it up.

Before saying anything, he takes a seat on the couch. He looks around the place for another minute, and he notices that you choose to stand instead of taking a seat. You couldn’t make it any more obvious. He clears his throat before speaking up, “Is everything okay between us?”

“Yeah! Yeah, why wouldn’t they be?” You’re stumbling over words, making your statement sound false. He’s quick to spot the lie, and a frown comes to his face. You can’t keep lying to him, you know.

“Why–”

“She’s cheating on you!” You blurt out, and to your surprise, he looks unphased. You feel the need to explain yourself after his lack of reaction, a response from your nerves. “I swore I was going to stay out of it when I heard her with her friend last week– I thought it was you two again but then I realized that it wasn’t you, and I couldn’t look you in the eye after it. I didn’t want to say anything because she’s my friend but you’re a really good guy–”

And as you ramble, you fail to notice that he’s stood up and he’s taken your hands into his. He’s squeezing your hands to make you calm down as you explain your side of the story. You’re not guilty in any of this, you’re just too damn good of a friend.

“Hey, hey. I’m not mad at you.” He cuts you off when he realizes you’re on the verge of tears. If he’s being honest, he was expecting something like this to happen with her. He’s been waiting for the right moment to end things, and luckily he has the best excuse now.

“I should’ve told you sooner, I’m sorry.” You still apologize. You feel your face get warm as you realize he’s holding your hands, making you jerk them out of his grasp. “But please, don’t tell her I told you.”

“I promise I won’t.” He responds. “Thank you so much for telling me.”

“Satoru, please don’t tell her I told you.” You ask of him once again, and he nods in response. And though the weight is lifted off your shoulders, another worry begins to settle in. But you try to convince yourself that you’ll be fine. If this marks the end of your friendship with Ali, then so be it. In the end, you did the right thing.

Satoru messages Ali on a Friday night, making sure that you’re out of the apartment before coming over. The message gets Ali excited since she thinks everything is going back to normal, especially since Satoru has been acting weirder than usual. The honeymoon stage is supposed to last longer than six months, but for some reason their relationship is going through a dry spell.

Ali begins to get ready for what she expects is going to be a steamy night. She checks the time every five minutes, waiting for Satoru to finally show up. While she promised you that she wouldn’t do it again, she’s not the type to keep a promise; especially when her needs aren’t being met.

Meanwhile, Satoru decides how he’s going to break the news… Should he be gentle? He won’t lie and say that he isn’t butthurt about her disloyalty. He’s been thinking about ending things with her for a while, but it hurts his ego to know that she cheated on him. Maybe he should be harsh with her, after all, cheating is not a mistake one should take lightly. And Satoru is certainly mad at the offense.

He’s set on making this as quick and easy as possible, so he’ll be calm with her. He’s grown to not care for her, so being angry will just waste his time. Sure, his ego is hurt but not enough to waste minutes of precious time. He takes a deep breath before ringing the doorbell.

“Pookie! I’m so happy that you’re here!” Ali exclaims immediately as she opens the door. She throws her arms over Satoru, hugging him tightly. Satoru does not return the hug, something that she doesn’t seem to notice.

They step inside, and Satoru awkwardly places his hands in his pockets. He’s not unfamiliar with a breakup, but it’s still awkward. Ali walks to the kitchen to get something to drink for him. Something sweet, just how he likes it.

“I’ve been thinking about you so much. I miss you.” She begins, and Satoru thinks about how to lay it on gently. She begins to tell him about a brand trip that she’s been invited to, and all the magnificent details.

“Here.” She smiles brightly at him, handing him something to drink. Satoru hesitantly takes it from her hand, swirling the drink in his hand but not daring to bring it up to his lips. She takes a seat on the couch, waiting for him to join her. Satoru remains standing though. “You’ve been so quiet lately.”

“Yeah…” Satoru sounds awkward, but he knows that she won’t pick up on it. Satoru walks to the kitchen to put the drink on the counter, he’s not thirsty right now.

“Is everything okay?” Ali asks, and Satoru slowly walks back to her. Her eyes keep going back and forth between him and the couch, but Satoru is opting to stand.

“My friend saw you with another guy in a compromising situation.” He finally admits, making her eyes go wide. A simple look at her, and Satoru knows that she’s ready to deny the situation. He has no proof, why is he questioning her loyalty?

“I– I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She begins, immediately giving it away that she’s guilty. She’s as pale as a ghost, something that almost earns a chuckle from Satoru in the very tense situation. He forgets about his hurt ego when he sees her reaction.

“Don’t lie to me. He said everything I need to know, and I trust him.” Satoru changes a certain detail, one that will take away all suspicions that would surround you. She’s taken back by this, and she’s not sure how to respond. She stands up from her seat, taking a step near the man.

“I only did it because you–” She’s getting defensive over her wrongdoings. Sure, she did it but she had a damn good reason– At least that’s what she thinks. “I told you I loved you and you–”

“I can’t tell you I love you when I don’t.” Satoru cuts her off, and her face gets red from embarrassment. She’s still going to hold her head high and defend her actions, even if there’s no good explanation for her decisions. “I was going to end things with you eventually, but what you’ve done is unforgivable. I liked the possibility of us being friends but… I don’t think I can do that either.”

“Satoru, we can talk about this.” Ali begins when she realizes that Satoru won’t care for any reasoning. He’s set on ending things. She’s stepping toward him, and when she’s within reach, she grabs his hands. “We can work things out, let’s not throw everything away–”

“You threw everything away. There’s no way in hell I’d get back with you after you cheated.” He interrupts her once again. It’s just like Suguru said, she’s very superficial. “You told me you loved me, yet you went with the first guy you could find because I needed some time. What does that say about your character or your feelings toward me? Do you even care about me?”

“I do! I was just– Feeling so low. I was tipsy and made a mistake.” She tries to explain her side, and Satoru takes his hands from her grasp. He doesn’t want to spend another minute here to hear stupid excuses for horrible actions– Horrible actions that hurt his ego but he doesn’t care about as much as he should. He was over with the relationship for a while now.

“I don’t care for a reason. This is over.” Satoru says, taking a step backwards. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. We’re both mature enough to not make this a bigger deal than it has to be.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but Satoru walks away before she can get a word out. He doesn’t care enough to hear what she has in mind, so she’s forced to swallow her words.

You’ve never seen Ali as devastated as she is now. She’s crying on your shoulder, telling you how much she regrets her actions. It’s good to hear that she’s learned from her mistakes, but you feel extremely guilty knowing that your best friend is heartbroken because you couldn’t keep a secret. Deep down, you know you did the right thing but still feel bad while your best friend is sobbing over her now ex-boyfriend.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do– He was so perfect.” She sobs, and you hear your heart breaking. You should’ve just bit your tongue about it.

You have conflicting feelings for Satoru, but you were rooting for them. You’d never wish harm on your best friend, and you didn’t tell him with the hopes that they’d break up. Cheating isn’t something that you can keep quiet about, even if it’s a mistake from your best friend.

“You’ll be okay, Ali. He wasn’t worth it.” You embrace her, hand rubbing her back to soothe her. You don’t believe the words leave your lips, but you’ll say just about anything to comfort her. You know her, she’s more upset about the fact that she got dumped than her so-called love for Satoru.

“You’re such a liar! He was perfect!” She cries, and you can’t argue with it. You’re at a loss of words– What’s the next step that you should take? You can’t reprimand her and remind her that these are the consequences of her actions. “He’s blocked me everywhere. I’ve been trying to message him on social media but I can’t find his accounts.”

“Maybe you should let this go. There’s no way to go back from this.” You try to tell her, but your words fall on deaf ears. You know her, she’s not listening to anything she doesn’t want to hear. Ali wants something, and she’ll get it no matter the cost.

She’s looking up at you with glossy eyes, desperate to get what she wants. You know the look in her eyes. She’s determined to get back with him, and she needs your help. Before she can mutter something out, you speak, “No. I’m not getting involved.”

“Please– Please, please, please. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She pleads, putting her hands together to beg. You look away, not willing to fall for her trap. You feel the guilt of telling Satoru, slowly eat you alive; you know you did the right thing, but why do you feel so bad?

“There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and you’re a pretty girl. He’s not all that.” You answer, once again not believing a single word you say. You have to make her drop this absurd idea of getting back with Satoru though, and you’re willing to make up any lie.

She takes her head off your shoulder, dramatically crossing her arms and pouting like a child. You let out a sigh, knowing that this stupid idea of getting back with Satoru is not getting dropped any time soon.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like him.” She murmurs, and you feel your face get hot. You don’t say anything because you’d surely give away your feelings by uttering a single word.

“We’ll talk again when you grow up.” You stand up from the couch, planning to leave her behind to sort out her intense emotions. But just as you’re about to walk away, she speaks up,

“Please, do this one thing for me and then I’ll leave you alone.” And you look back at her, the desperation in her eyes getting to you. She’s in this position because of you. The least you can do is help her out.

An exasperated sigh leaves your lips before you mutter out, “Fine.”

Ali has an insane power over you, and it’s clear when she strings you along in her ridiculous plan. Though there is no plan, she just wants you to show up at Satoru’s place and beg. She can’t show up anymore since he threatened her with a restraining order (thinking about it, you’re not sure why you agreed to come), so she pushed you to show up.

Though you aren’t exactly doing what she wants you to do.

You texted Satoru in the morning, asking him if you could meet up to talk. Surprisingly, he agreed. You have no idea how to proceed though. How will you even bring up the topic without getting completely turned down?

Your mind is racing to find the answer as you sit down outside the café. You’re bouncing your leg, feeling your nerves rise as you wait for Satoru’s arrival. Ali is inside, trying to hide as her stupid plan unravels. You’re like her puppet, and you fail to notice.

“Hi.” You’re startled by a welcoming voice. You look up to find Satoru with a subtle smile on his face. You stand up to greet him, though he assures you it isn’t necessary.

His eyes look you up and down, and your face gets hot at the mere thought that he’s checking you out– No, it’s absurd. He wouldn’t be into you in any way. Ali is his type, and you’re nothing like her.

“I’m going in. Do you want anything? I heard you also like sweet stuff.” Satoru offers, and you’re about to shake your head since you don’t want Satoru spending a single cent on you; but then you remember Ali is also inside.

“I’ll get it, what do you want?” You quickly ask and he raises a brow.

“It’s fine, I need to walk a little more before stuffing my face.” He replies, and you insist. He lets out a chuckle at your insistence before telling you, “I’ll ignore Allison, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Oh– You know about that.” You awkwardly respond, and Satoru nods.

“You don’t think I’m dumb enough to not know, right? You’re too good to her, you wouldn’t reach out even though–” He cuts himself off before finishing his sentence. He doesn’t want to embarrass you. “I know you’re here for her.”

“Then why did you come?” You question, earning a shrug for him. Before you can pressure him to give you a proper answer, he walks inside the café to get himself a treat. You take a seat once again, and instead of focusing on your initial goal, your mind fills up with questions.

He’s not here because he likes you… Right? No. Absolutely not. You quickly shake that thought out of your head. It’s not that you’re not beautiful, but compared to Ali you’re nothing. Your whole life you’ve always come second to her, and this situation is no different. Even if Satoru were to make a move on you, it’d be to get some sort of revenge on Ali.

As your mind races and goes through every possible scenario, Satoru comes back with a coffee and two treats. He places a delicious dessert in front of you before sitting down across from you. Your eyes get big at the sight of the sweet dish, your mouth salivating. It sure manages to push away any and all thoughts that were flooding your brain.

“What is this?” You ask, and he looks like he’s fighting back a smile.

“Just thought you might like it.” He acts unbothered. You lick your lips, about to taste the dessert but you end up holding back. You simply watch him sip on his beverage. You’re reminded that you’re here to help Ali out.

“How have you been holding up? Has the breakup been hitting you hard?” You ask, though you know the question is useless. Satoru has never looked better. A great weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and it’s noticeable.

“Sure, you can say that.” He chuckles, taking the question as a joke. “Give me your proposal. What is she offering?”

“Apologies.” There’s an unintentional mocking tone in your voice. Satoru’s brows raise as he picks up on it, but he quickly assumes that you don’t do it on purpose. “She really is sorry, Satoru. She regrets her decision, and she really misses you.”

“That’s good to hear.” He says, and before you can say anything, he speaks up again, “I still don’t want anything to do with her. You of all people should know that cheating isn’t the only thing that led to this.”

“Ali is a good person… She’s just out of it sometimes.” You defend her, and Satoru laughs. “She misses you so much, and it hurts to see my best friend in this much pain.”

“You’re too good for her.” He replies, and you hate to hear those words. She’s your best friend, you’re not too good for her– You’re just doing everything that a best friend should be doing.

“I’m doing what I should be doing. She loves you, Satoru.” You point out, and he scoffs. She told him that she loves him, but that’s hard to believe. Satoru’s gotten to know Ali, and he knows that she has a certain way with words. She’s not very convincing to Satoru though.

“Why should you be involved in this? You’re a great friend, but she’s not one. If she was, she wouldn’t get you involved in this.” Satoru responds, and you sigh. You don’t want to begin that conversation, mainly because you know there’s some truth to his words.

“I should get involved because she’s suffering.” You argue, and Satoru wants to laugh. Suffering, right. She’s too self-absorbed to care about someone else.

“Can’t she just get a new boyfriend? Why does it have to be me?” He asks, and you furrow your brows.

“What do you mean? Who else would it be?” You question. “You can’t easily fall in and out of love.”

“She’s not in love with me though. She just likes attention and expensive things, something a lot of other men can offer.” Satoru points out, making you bite your lip. He’s not entirely wrong but you still choose to defend your best friend.

“She does love you, Satoru. She’s been crying to me about this for so long. She misses you.” You defend her, and Satoru clicks his tongue.

“Will you taste the dessert I got you? I want to see if you like it.” Satoru tries to change the topic, and you puff out a breath. It’s not going to kill you to taste it, and you’ll quickly go back to the subject.

You take a small bite, and your eyes light up as you begin to savor the food in front of you. Satoru is watching your every move, finding your expression amusing. For the second, you completely forget why you’re here.

“Is it good?” Satoru asks, and you excitedly nod your head. It’s good to know that he made the right decision. He watches you take another bite before standing up. The topic of Ali is tired, and he knows that it’s the only type of conversation he’ll get from you today. He knew that the whole reason you asked him to meet up was to talk about Ali, but he doesn’t regret coming.

“Where are you going?” You sound funny, your mouth full of food as Satoru grabs his drink. It’s obvious he’s leaving, but you ask with the slight hope that you’re wrong.

“For the record, I came here because it’s always nice to talk to you.” Satoru tells you, and you raise your eyebrows in confusion. He clears his throat before pointing inside, “We can meet up again soon, just not with her around.”

“Wait–! We’re not done here.” You try to stop him but Satoru turns his back to you and begins to walk away.

Unluckily for Ali, you’re not running after him to talk. He’s made his decision and you aren’t willing to interfere in their relationship anymore. And unluckily for you, you know that Ali won’t accept the decision and continue to press you about the matter.

Satoru furrows his eyebrows as he sees the long line of the shop. He thought that showing up early would reduce the amount of people in the place, but he’s been proven wrong. He can’t help but sigh, knowing that he’ll spend at least twenty minutes waiting just to get a treat. But all the time in line is worth it.

Satoru looks around the place, hoping that he’ll find something– Even if he stands so far away that he can’t make out anything he sees. He freezes when he sees a familiar head of curly brown hair, way ahead in line. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before stepping forward.

“Which one should I get?” You mutter yourself, mouth watering as your eyes scan all the desserts behind the glass.

“The macaroons look good.” You’re startled by an all too familiar voice. You put your hand over your heart, feeling as if it’s about to beat out of your chest as you look at him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him, as if it’s impossible for you to end up in the same place. You know he has a sweet tooth as well, it shouldn’t be a surprise to find him here. You look back, and see the long line behind you. “Oh, you’re using me to cut line, I see.”

“Can’t you believe I just wanted to greet you?” Satoru responds, and you chuckle.

“It’s fine. You can use me.” You respond, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. It’s weird to talk to him without using Ali as an excuse. “I’ve been waiting for a while, it’s fine.”

“Did you just get off work?” Satoru asks and you nod. “What do you do? I’m sorry I never–”

“Hurry up! We’re waiting!” Someone cuts off the conversation, and you feel your face get warm from embarrassment. Satoru glares back at them, as if he has the right. He did cut the line, but he doesn’t care.

“I’ll take two of those.” You tell the worker behind the counter. You don’t even look at the food that you’re pointing at, you just want to get out of line. “Pick what you want.”

His order is more intricate than yours. It’s clear that he would’ve waited an hour if he had to.

“I’ll pay.” He insists when you get to the register, and you want to argue with him that you got yourself covered. But he pays before you can even open your mouth.

“Thank you.” You’re forced to thank him when you exit the store. You expect to go your separate ways, after leaving the place but Satoru offers,

“How about we take a seat? I want to talk to you.”

“Oh– Yeah.” You respond. You bite down your lip before telling him, “I’m a tech analyst, by the way.”

“Huh– Oh, yeah.” Satoru replies. He stares at your face for a moment before letting out a low laugh. “I would’ve never guessed.”

“Well now you know.”

Ali calms down a couple of months after her breakup with Satoru. She certainly leaves you alone about the matter which you’re grateful for. You’re more than willing to help your best friend with any issue, but her relationship with Satoru is a mess you’d rather stay out of.

Knowing Ali, she’s certainly not given up on Satoru. She’s just leaving you out of the mess, and by doing so, she’s completely forgotten about you. Even though you miss your friend, you certainly don’t mind not being involved in her romantic issues.

You know that she’s looking for ways to get close to Satoru again, not knowing that using you again would actually offer some sort of result this time around. But you wouldn’t dare tell her.

It wasn’t something you planned out, it just happened. Your shared love for sweets led you to the same shop in town– And you keep meeting up by chance. There aren't many shops in the area like that one. Sure, you can buy a dessert anywhere, but you won’t find the variety and quality anywhere else in town; it’s what attracts you two to the same place.

You met a handful of times by chance, and each time you began to talk. Conversation flowed smoothly each time, which led you to talk more on the phone. Now you’re texting to meet up, agreeing to grab a sweet treat at least once a week. You slightly feel guilty for meeting him behind Ali’s back, but you know that you aren’t doing anything wrong.

You’re simply friends with Satoru. Everything is completely platonic.

“I got this for you.” Satoru puts down a little box on the table, sliding it over to you. Your eyes narrow as you try to decipher what’s in the box. You wonder what he’s picked for you. While you’ve gotten close, you doubt that he’s really noticed your preferences in sweets.

“You didn’t have to, thank you.” You immediately respond, opening the box to find your favorite dessert. Your eyes widen, a smile coming to your face as you realize that he’s noticed what your favorite kind of treat is. It’s sweet to know that he’s noticed. “I really appreciate it, Satoru.”

“It was no problem.” He smiles back at you. He’s always buying something for you, making you feel special in a way that he’d never guess. You almost feel guilty for never getting him something in return.

“Do you want a bit?” You offer, but he quickly shakes his head. He got it for you because he knows that you like it, but he isn’t particularly fond of the dessert that he got you. You look delighted with his response, making Satoru scoff.

“You do know the place has more, right? It wouldn’t kill you to share either.” He says, and you stick your tongue out at him jokingly. “You can enjoy your yucky dessert alone, don’t worry.”

“Yucky? Really?” You respond and he hums in response. “You sound like a child.”

“I can’t find a more fitting word.” He replies which makes you giggle. He can criticize the food all he wants, as long as you don’t have to share. Satoru clears his throat before speaking up again, “You know, I was thinking–”

“This is so good.” You unintentionally cut him off as you taste what he got you. You swear you’re in heaven with the first taste. You don’t understand how Satoru doesn’t like it, but it’s fine, you’re happy as long as you don’t have to share. Satoru chuckles at your reaction.

“I really don’t understand why you like it so much. There’s so many other options.” He says, but you don’t pay much attention to what he has to say. And just like that, the courage for what he was going to say is completely gone. “But if it makes you happy.”

“You know something? You’re actually a really picky eater. I never figured you as the type.” You tell him, and Satoru clicks his tongue. You aren’t wrong though. “I did cut you off, didn’t I? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, dismissing the topic. You furrow your brows, getting curious as to what you interrupted.

“Are you sure?” You question and he nods in response. The reason you’re here today is because Satoru texted you that he wanted to talk about something. You seriously doubt that the reason he’s here is to simply give you a free dessert. “I don’t buy it.”

“You’re right.” He sighs. He bites his lip, fidgeting his fingers. He’s feeling nervous, something that rarely comes to him. Satoru has the right to feel confident in every situation– But he’s not sure how to approach this considering the weird dynamic that you have. He finally spits out, “How about we go on a date? Would you like that?”

“Satoru–” You’re caught speechless. You slowly blink, feeling as if your heart is about to beat out of your chest. Did you hear that right? You begin to laugh, as if Satoru just told you some sort of joke. “You got me.”

“I’m not joking.” Satoru almost sounds offended by your response.

“I– I can’t, Satoru.” You answer, feeling dirty for even saying that. You like him– It’s no longer a stupid crush anymore. After spending time with him, and getting to know him better, you’ve realized that you like him as a person. You’re not just attracted to him. You can picture a future with him, although you shouldn’t.

“Why?” He asks. He knows you like him, he’s known for a long time. It’s clear that you two have chemistry. You didn’t just say no, you specifically told him that you can’t. “If it’s about Ali–”

“I’m sorry.” You stand up. You walk away, leaving your dessert half eaten.

“Should’ve known.” Satoru mutters, quickly followed by a sigh. It’s clear that you like him, but your loyalty towards Ali is stronger.

“Hey… What are you doing here?” Satoru opens the door, only to find you completely distressed. It’s almost midnight, so he’s shocked to find you at his door. You look distressed– It’s clear to him that you’ve just woken up, given that you’re wearing your glasses instead of your usual contacts. “If it’s about earlier–”

“We have to talk.” You cut him off, and Satoru moves to the side to let you in. You take a deep breath before stepping into his apartment. You awkwardly look around the place, wondering why you’re here. You’re listening to your heart instead of your brain, you should turn around and go back to your best friend.

“What do you want to say?” He asks, shutting the door behind him. He steps near you, and you feel your breath get caught up in your chest.

“I was thinking about it… I do like you, Satoru.” You confess, something that isn’t news to Satoru. He’s known for a while. It was clear that you were trying to hide it, so it wasn’t something that concerned him while he was with Ali.

You sigh, “But Ali’s been my friend since childhood. She loves you. I can’t do this to her.”

“Please…” Satoru grabs your hand, putting it over his beating heart. You feel your face get warm, looking up at him to make eye contact. “You shouldn’t be unhappy for her.”

“We make great friends, Satoru. I can’t hurt her like this.” You tell him, hating yourself for the words that leave your mouth. If you were anyone else, you’d jump at the opportunity to be with him, but you can’t do that to your best friend. “I came here to tell you that. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“You know that we’d go really great together.” He tries to convince you, and you know he isn’t wrong. You look into his adoring eyes, feeling your heart skip a beat. “You can’t base your decisions on her feelings.”

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter as your hands go to the back of his neck, bringing him down to meet your lips. You’re not apologizing to him, that part is clear to him when your soft lips meet his. You’re listening to your heart and not your mind for once. Though it swells with guilt, the feeling is overshadowed.

Satoru shuts his eyes, giving in to the soft feeling of your lips against his. You pull away, your gaze meeting his adoring eyes for a moment. You shouldn’t, yet your lips meet again. It starts sweet, but his wandering hands escalate things. Your tongue enters his mouth as his hands land on your ass.

You feel as if your body is burning up as your tongue presses against his. You need him in every explicable way. Your body needs more. Satoru picks you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you to his bedroom, gently putting you down on his bed. Are things going too fast? Or has this been brewing up for a while? Either way, things aren’t stopping now.

He pulls away, taking off your glasses and putting them down on his nightstand before focusing all his attention on you. He cups your face and lovingly kisses you as your fingers trace down his body and stop at his sweatpants.

You escalate things by pulling down his sweatpants, unable to waste any more time. You pull away from the kiss. You look up at him with dark, lust-filled eyes. As he pulls away, you push down his underwear.

You shouldn’t be surprised by his size, but he’s bigger than average. Your hand wraps around the base and you give it a couple of strokes before your tongue circles around the tip. You start off slow and unsure, but quickly become confident as you hear a soft moan leave Satoru’s lips.

You lick his length before fully wrapping your mouth around it, taking as much as you can get.

You bob your head slowly, starting off slow. It’s not how he usually likes to start off things, but right now he swears he’s in heaven with how your mouth feels around his cock. It feels so perfect around him.

Your bobs begin to pick up a bit of speed, and he bites down his lip. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself by being too loud, even if it is because you’re making him feel good. He stares down at you, watching as you suck him off with no problem, looking so perfect while you’re preoccupied. He sighs, relieved.

You look up at him, wanting his approval. He’s a little too caught up in his own feelings, too engrossed with how your mouth feels around him. He can’t form a sentence to praise you on how good you’re doing.

He grabs the back of your head and pushes your head so you gag on his cock. As gentle as he wants to be with you, he can’t hold back for too long. You’re gagging on his dick, tears filling up your eyes and quickly spilling as he makes you take every inch of his dick in your mouth.

“Fuck– Fuck-” He moans, watching as a couple of tears leave your eyes. It should be a sin for someone to look so pretty as they begin to cry. He finally lets go of you, allowing you to retake control of the narrative. “Your mouth is too perfect.”

You take his dick out of your mouth, stroking it a couple of times before wrapping your mouth around it again. Satoru’s breath gets caught up in his throat as his release nears.

He shuts his eyes, throwing his head back, groaning in pleasure as his come hits the back of your throat. You take his cock out of your mouth and before you can say a word, his lips land on yours again.

Satoru wastes no time in getting you undressed. He makes sure to praise every inch of your body, kissing every corner. He wants you to know just how much he likes you, and how attractive he finds you. There is no better way to tell you than just by kissing every inch of your body.

“Get on all fours.” He tells you, and you waste no time. Satoru takes a moment to look at your pretty pussy before spitting on it a couple of times.

Satoru aligns his cock with the entrance of your pussy, running the tip through your folds and teasing you. Satoru slowly pushes himself inside of you, and you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head. You loudly moan as his thick cock stretches you out.

Satoru’s hands go to your hips, searching for balance before he begins to move. The man can’t help but loudly moan as he feels your tight pussy wrap around him. You’re so perfect, it’s going to drive him insane. He hasn’t properly tasted you yet but he’s surely to get obsessed.

“It’s so good!” You moan, his cock filling you up just right. You hate to admit that you’ve thought about this moment so many times, but you never imagined it’d be this good. It’s hard to feel guilty when your body feels this amazing.

Your back arches as your head presses against the mattress, muffling any noise that comes from your mouth. Satoru slaps your ass as his eyes watch it jiggle with his every movement. He can’t keep his eyes off it.

“You’re so tight.” Satoru tells you through gritted teeth. He holds back on moaning, not wanting to sound too pathetic as he fucks you. It’s hard when your cunt is so nice and tight around him though.

“It’s so good, daddy.” You moan, stumbling over your words. Satoru can die and go to heaven when he hears you call him daddy. Everything you do is so perfect, he can’t believe he’s waited so long to pursue you.

One of your hands goes under and you begin to play with your clit, making you squeeze around his cock. He moans your name out of pure pleasure. He’s surely going to be thinking about this for days on end. He’s never felt like this with anyone else.

“Daddy, it’s so good!” You stop playing with your clit, your hands gripping the silk sheets underneath as your orgasm takes over your body.

“Good girl. You’re doing so good.” Satoru breathlessly praises you, knowing that he won’t last much longer. He isn’t alone though. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head, orgasm rapidly approaching.

Your body finally spasms, reaching your peak. Satoru slaps your ass a couple of times, praising you for being so good and so perfect for finishing around his cock. He keeps telling you how perfect you are, moaning your name. He’s making you feel like a goddess.

Satoru’s thrusts become unregulated. It’s hard for him to contain himself, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. He doesn’t want you to come to your senses yet. He wants to stay like this for a while. Alas, he can’t hold himself back forever.

He pulls his cock out, coating your ass with his cum. He swears he hasn’t seen a prettier sight– Apart from your face, of course. But your ass being coated with his cum is a close second.

“That was–” Satoru plops down on the bed beside you, as you lay on your stomach. He’s out of breath, and needs a moment. “Amazing.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle, staring at him as he looks at the ceiling.

Maybe you’ll regret it in the morning, but not right now. Right now, you feel euphoric.

Your hand goes to his face, thumb caressing his cheek. He looks back at you so lovingly, and your heart skips a beat.

“We’re not done yet.” You tell him, and a smile comes to Satoru’s face.

He couldn’t agree more.

The sunlight peeks into the room, causing you to open your eyes first thing in the morning. You slowly take in your surroundings, realizing that you’re not back at your place. You feel a heavy arm over your body, cuddling you. It takes you a minute to remember the events of last night before you quickly sit up on the bed.

You feel your face get hot, embarrassment quickly flowing through you. Quickly followed by regret. No, you shouldn’t be here. You do like him, otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up last night… But doing this to your own best friend? You don’t know how you could ever face her again after this.

“Go back to sleep.” A sleepy Satoru mutters, and as much as your sore body wants to lay back down, you can’t. You’re pulling the bed sheets off your body and searching for your scattered clothes. Satoru ends up fully waking up when he realizes what you’re doing. You’re leaving as if this is a one-night-stand.

“Please don’t ever tell anyone that this happened.” You tell him, grabbing your bra from the floor. Satoru’s eyes focus on your ass– Granted, it’s the worst time to focus on your ass, but it’s hard to ignore when it looks so perfect in front of him. Your next words bring him back to reality, “What happened last night shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He calls out your name, making you freeze in your spot. You’re hesitant to look back at him, but you end up doing it. “You know you don’t regret it.”

“I– I don’t.” You can’t lie to him. You try to continue to get dressed to get out of the apartment as fast as possible. You’re scared that you’re going to commit another mistake if you stay for too long.

“Why don’t you stay?” Satoru asks, and you can’t give him an answer. He knows why, but he needs you to say it for you to realize how ridiculous you sound. “You shouldn’t put yourself second. Ali made her own mistakes, and you shouldn’t pay for them.”

“She’s my best friend, Satoru. She loves you.” You respond, and Satoru scoffs. It’s too early to deal with this. How many times does he have to tell you that she doesn’t love him for you to drop the subject. “I know that she doesn’t deserve another chance with you, but I can’t do this to her.”

“Do what to her? She’s going to move on eventually, and you’re just going to be miserable. You’re passing up on a great relationship for a girl that doesn’t care about you enough.” It’s harsh, but Satoru can’t help but tell you the truth. As painful as it is. If he isn’t harsh with you, you’ll never open your eyes.

“You’re right.” You end up sighing. You take a seat on the bed again, mind heavy with thoughts.

“If you want this to stop now, we can end it now.” He says, reaching over to grab your hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Just know that we like each other, and there’s actually nothing keeping us apart.”

For a long minute, the room is silent. He’s right, as much as you don’t want to admit it. There’s no reason for you to not be together. Ali won’t react well, but you’re not going to let her dictate your life.

“You’re right.” You respond, and you watch as his face lights up. “But please, let’s keep this a secret for now. Until I figure out what to say to Ali.”

“My lips are sealed.”

There’s something up your sleeve, and Ali can’t help but notice. She doesn’t know when it started, but one day she realized that the place was dirty. Dishes were piling up, the floor needed to be mopped and she didn’t have a single article of clean clothes.

Even when you found out that she cheated on Satoru, you continued to do everything for her, so she wonders if something is wrong with you… The place is filthy, time is running out and she refuses to pick up a single dish. You’ve always taken it as your responsibility to do every chore in the house, you can’t just stop now. What could she have possibly done to upset you this time? She tries to talk to you about the subject, but when she knocks on your door, you’re not home.

That’s not the only thing though. When you do come home, she notices you have some expensive items. Items that you’d never willingly spend money on, she knows that much about you. The signs are all there: you’re seeing someone.

“Hi, babe.” Ali startles you when you get home, a little past midnight. You’re a bit disheveled, making it clear what you were up to. She stayed up for you, waiting for you on the couch, and it makes you feel uneasy.

“Hi, Ali.” You sheepishly smile at her, feeling as if you’ve somehow gotten caught. You cover up your tracks damn well, you know that she has no way of knowing that you’re dating Satoru behind her back. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” She responds. You feel your breath get caught up in your chest, waiting for her to say something else. You begin to take small, subtle steps to your room as she makes up her mind. “Are you mad at me?”

“No… Why would I be?” You question, though you know why she asks. She’s worried because you’re barely coming around.

“You’re seeing someone then, right?” She asks, standing up from the couch and stepping towards you. You feel your hands get shaky, nerves taking over you.

“No– Why do you ask?” You slightly stumble over your words, and you hope that she doesn’t notice. You hope that Satoru is right about your best friend when he says that she’s too self absorbed to care about anyone else but herself.

“You’re here late and…” She looks you up and down, judgment written all over her face. “You look like that.”

“I just had a rough day.” You claim, trying to play it off. Much to your dismay, she snatches the purse that you hold in your hands. She closely inspects it, trying to check if it’s authentic. You should’ve known better than to accept Satoru’s very expensive gifts.

“It’s real. You wouldn’t spend this much money on a purse.” She points out, and you get increasingly nervous. You snatch the purse back before answering,

“Is it that hard to believe that I would slowly save up for a purse?”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. It’s very clear that you’re seeing someone, but you won’t tell. You’ll come around eventually, she just has to give you the cold shoulder for a while– She’s not too sure if it’ll work this time around.

She dramatically turns away from you and begins to walk to her room, taking small steps to give you time to speak up. But you don’t say anything. On the contrary, you begin to walk to your room as well.

“You’re the worst.” You stick out your tongue at Satoru, getting mad at the 4+ card that he puts down on the deck. You wish you could easily take defeat, but your boyfriend sure loves to brag about his victories. He drives you insane.

“The worst? Why? Because I’m better than you?” Satoru is so smug about it, and you’re filled with rage. You take deep breaths, reminding yourself that this is just a game.

“You suck!” You respond, throwing your cards on the coffee table. Satoru chuckles, watching you stand up and head to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, making him follow like a lost puppy.

He engulfs you in a hug, filling up your face with kisses. He mutters baseless apologies for his great luck and strategy for the game. You’re trying to push him away, but he’s too overbearing.

“Hi, guys.” You hear and your blood runs cold as you hear an all too familiar voice. You finally manage to stop Satoru, who looks unphased by Shoko’s voice. You’ve been caught, yet he doesn’t seem to care.

“Jeez, have you heard of knocking?” Satoru finally looks at the woman, who holds up the apartment key.

“I came here to pick something up. Suguru left his jacket here.” She looks around for the item she came for, not really questioning why Satoru was kissing you.

“We– We can explain.” You begin, and she furrows her brows in a confused manner as she looks back at you.

“What is there to explain? Satoru told us that you’re dating.” She answers, and you glare at the man that stands right next to you. He looks just as confused as Shoko by your reaction.

“Was I not supposed to?” He questions, and you cross your arms.

“I told you that this is a secret.” You mutter.

“Yeah, a secret from Allison. Not my friends.” Satoru reiterates, and you sigh. So his friends know, great. It’s only a matter of time before your best friend finds out as well. You have to find the right time to break the news to her before she finds out on her own.

“Satoru…” You shake your head disappointedly. You want to show off your relationship as much as possible, so you’re not hiding this because you want to. You’re doing what’s best for your relationship for Ali– As selfish as it is to do this to Satoru.

“I’m sorry, I misunderstood.” He apologizes, as a heavy weight sets on your shoulders. You have to tell her eventually, you can’t keep your relationship a secret forever.

“I have to–” You begin, but you’re cut off by the sound of your phone ringing. Shoko grabs it from the coffee table and hands it to you, a look of annoyance coming to her face on your part. You feel your heart drop, looking back at your boyfriend. “It’s her.”

“Just pick up the phone. She won’t call you unless it’s an emergency.” Satoru tells you. He’s noticed that your best friend rarely communicates with you; granted, unless she needs something from you.

“Hi, Ali.” You answer the phone, stepping away from Satoru because you’re scared that a single breath from him will get you caught. Satoru keeps his gaze on you as you talk to your best friend. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll be right there.”

“What happened?” Satoru mouths, but you ignore him as you comfort your best friend. You stay on the line for another minute before hanging up.

“A family member of hers died, and she wants me to go with her back to our hometown.” You answer, and Satoru raises his brows. He won’t ask who, it’s too intrusive. You’re together, but there’s some things about Ali that you refuse to tell him because you feel like you’re telling too much about your best friend.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Satoru isn’t sure how else to respond. You kiss his cheek before walking over to the couch to grab your stuff.

“I have to go. She sounds pretty devastated.” You tell him, and Satoru purses his lips together. The great night that he had planned has been ruined, and for Ali of all people. But he tries to pull his feelings to the side, knowing that there’s a possibility that you’re affected by all of this. After all, you and Ali grew up together.

“Do you need anything? I can–” He begins, only to be interrupted by you.

“I didn’t know him well, he was one of Ali’s uncles and I saw him maybe a handful of times.” You reassure him, somehow managing to read his mind. “But… Can I ask something from you?”

“Anything.” He responds.

“Please refrain from communicating. Right now is not the time to break the news to Ali.”

Satoru is slowly dying inside, knowing that he can’t contact you in any way. For two weeks, he’s forced to blankly stare at his phone, hoping that you’ll send him a message. It doesn’t have to be long, just a sign of life from you.

He’s told his parents about you. It’s obvious that he takes this relationship very seriously, and he sees a future with you– One that he never saw with Ali. Which means he’s miserable knowing that he can’t contact you. He counts down the hours till he gets to know that you’re coming back.

It’s fair to say that he’s overjoyed when you finally call. He wants to pick up the phone immediately, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate by picking up within the first ring. He waits a couple of seconds before bringing up the phone to his ear.

“Hi, baby. I miss you.” Satoru immediately says, not helping his case of not looking desperate. There’s only so much he can do though.

“Hi.” You’re not as affectionate as he is, which lets him know that you’re not alone. He wonders why you’re calling when she’s nearby but at the same time he couldn’t give a damn. As long as he gets to hear your voice, he’s happy. “I’m calling to let you know I’m back home.”

“When can we meet?” He quickly asks, hoping that you’ll say tonight. He’s quickly filled with disappointment when you tell him,

“Are you going to Suguru’s party tomorrow night? How about there?” You suggest. He bites down his lip, holding back a sigh. It’s better than waiting for days on end.

“Yeah… I’ll see you then.” He responds, hoping that you’ll say something more. But you end up hanging up the phone before he can get another word in.

He still can’t help but smile, realizing that he’ll finally see you tomorrow.

Satoru bounces his leg anxiously, waiting for you to finally show up at Suguru’s apartment. You’re late– At least a lot of people are showing up before you which is rare. You usually show up early to things, but you’re still not here. Perhaps Satoru is a little earlier than usual today; he’s simply too excited with the fact that he’ll finally see you. It feels like an eternity since the last time he saw your face.

He can’t wait to hold you or kiss you again, which is why he’s impatient. He’s slowly becoming needy by your side, and he isn’t particularly mad about it.

“Hey–” He excitedly greets you, standing up from the couch to hug you but he freezes in his spot when he sees your best friend right behind you. The smile on his face drops, realizing that his plans for tonight have been delayed even further. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah… Me neither.” You try to play it off. You watch as your best friend happily greets your boyfriend, only to be ignored by Satoru.

“Shoko!” You call out, walking over to her since you don’t want to awkwardly be put in the position of being between Satoru and Ali. No matter what you say to her, she’s still going to do everything in her power to flirt with him. As uncomfortable as it is to know that your best friend is hitting on your boyfriend, you know that you’re doing something wrong by dating him so you won’t intervene.

“How are you, Satoru? I haven’t seen you in a while.” She begins, only for the man to completely ignore her and follow after you. He doesn’t bother to hide it, but he knows that she won’t notice. She thinks that you’re beneath her, she doesn’t think that he’s following after you.

“What is she doing here?” He asks you as he approaches you. He interrupts Shoko as she speaks to you, and Shoko crosses her arms, annoyed that she’s been cut off by Satoru.

“They’re best friends, why wouldn’t she be here?” Shoko argues, and Satoru clicks his tongue.

“I didn’t ask you.” Satoru glares at Shoko. Knowing Suguru, he most definitely didn’t invite Ali.

“She’s feeling a little down and asked if she could tag along.” You answer, and Satoru hates the fact that you’re such a great friend– Especially to such an undeserving woman like Ali. Satoru gives you an unintentional but nasty look and you kiss his cheek, “I couldn’t say no to her–”

“She saw that.” Shoko quickly tells you, and you begin to panic only for Shoko to laugh in your face. “I was joking, but man, that look on your face is priceless.”

“Shoko!” You yell and she laughs even harder than before. You roll your eyes at her before turning your attention to Satoru,

“I think it’s best if we stay away from each other for the night… I’ll come over after the party.” Which makes the man sigh. He got too excited for tonight, only for Ali to ruin it all. “I don’t want her to think something’s up if we’re attached to the hip tonight. She’s still very fragile.”

“Fine.” Satoru agrees. As much as he thinks that Ali is undeserving of you, he won’t go against your wishes. Though his night had suddenly turned sour.

Ali has lost track of time. She’s been chasing around Satoru the entire night, all to no avail. It’s like he’s running away from her. But that doesn’t seem plausible in her head. Why would Satoru want to run away from her?

She asks around, hoping that one of his friends can pinpoint where Satoru is and lead her to him. She doesn’t seem to realize that the majority of the people she talks to are Satoru’s friends, all who know the type of person she is. All of them who luckily keep their mouths shut about you.

“Where is he?” She questions, going upstairs when she comes to the realization that he isn’t anywhere on the first floor. Is he upstairs with somebody else? Surely Satoru hasn’t moved on yet… Right? No, he wouldn’t.

Ali chases after him, hoping to have a conversation with him where she can explain her truth. Her side of things about the very straightforward mistake that she made. She hopes that a couple of tears are going to be able to move him. After all, who can say no to her?

She confidently opens a door, only for her eyes to widen when she sees what’s happening. Her blood runs cold before it begins to boil at the sight. You’re on top of Satoru. You’re kissing him. He’s kissing you back.

No, this can’t be happening. She pinches herself, checking if what she sees is a dream. But no. Satoru has moved on, and with you of all people. How pathetic. Satoru Gojo can get just about any woman he wants and he’d choose you?

“What the fuck?!” She yells, causing you to come to an abrupt stop. Your eyes widen at the sight of your best friend, and you begin to panic. But before you can even get a word out, Ali grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you off Satoru. “You stupid little bitch.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You cry out as she begins to hit you. You’re not doing anything to stop her because it’s something that you genuinely believe you deserve. A good friend wouldn’t date their best friend’s ex-boyfriend.

“Allison, let go of her.” Satoru tries to pull her off you, but he’s unable to unless he uses force. He doesn’t want to harm Ali in any way, knowing that it’ll upset you. Even when she’s pulling your hair and scratching you like a cat.

“You call yourself my best friend and this is what you do?! You’re a stupid homewrecker.” She spits on you, and it drives Satoru over the edge. He’ll deal with the repercussions later but he can’t stand to watch it. He forcibly pushes Ali off you, making her back harshly hit the wall.

“Are you okay, baby?” Satoru cups your face, thumb going over the scratch on your cheek. It’s bleeding. Tears are streaming down your face, completely ignoring what Satoru says as you apologize to your best friend.

“I’m sorry, Ali. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” You sob, but she’s not listening to what you have to say.

A couple of people are gathering around. They heard some commotion, and of course, they had to come around to see. All to add to your embarrassment.

“You stupid bitch!” Ali yells again, trying to reach for you but Satoru doesn’t let her. Someone steps in to hold her back, but that doesn’t stop the barrage of insults that roll off her tongue.

“I’m so sorry.” You continue, trying to pay no mind to the insults that she spews. You’re trying to block them out, but they still hurt like hell.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Satoru tries to get you to look at him, but you keep your focus on Ali. The woman that you’ve betrayed.

Even when she’s taken out of your line of sight, she’s the only thing on your mind. No matter what you do, your friendship will never be the same.

You should’ve known that Ali wouldn’t stop at dragging you by the hair and hitting you. The woman that you’ve lived with for years is vengeful, and she wouldn’t change a thing for you of all people. Though you didn’t do anything to change it because you believed you deserved it.

The very next day, Ali had changed the locks to your shared apartment. When you managed to get inside, you noticed all of your clothes and accessories destroyed all over your room. It was fine. You deserved it. Even though Satoru reassured you that you didn’t, you still believed she was right to do it.

A week later, your car’s tires were slashed, and two of the windows were broken. To top it off, Whore was keyed on it. You called Satoru about it, complaining that you’d get late to work– Something that annoyed Satoru. It was clear who the culprit was, yet you refused to do anything about it because it was Ali. You believed you deserved it even though you didn’t.

Satoru knows that you can stand up for yourself, he’s seen it before, so why can’t you do it with Ali? He knows that you’ve spent a lifetime together, but that’s not a good reason for you to let her walk all over you.

But no matter what he says, you won’t do anything to stop her. You apologize for what she’s done to you. Ali can ruin as many cars as she’d like, he can easily replace them; however, it pains him to see you suffer because of her.

Satoru won’t overstep, not until he receives a call a little after five, and you sound completely distressed.

“I– I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.” You sob, and he quickly becomes alert.

“What happened? Are you okay? Do I need to pick you up?” He asks, quickly searching for car keys to leave and pick you up. Whatever it is, he knows that it’s tied to Ali.

“I’m covered in eggs. Some of her crazy followers know where I work and they–” You sob, and Satoru feels his heart break as you explain the situation. He can only hope that you finally open your eyes and realize the type of person Ali is. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru. We should end this here.”

“Wait– No. Absolutely not. You’re not letting her win.” Satoru quickly responds as he exits the house. He’s going somewhere– Either to your apartment or your workplace to talk to you. No, he should go to the police station to deal with Ali. She needs to be stopped, and it’s clear that you’re not going to take action.

“I’m not letting her win. I’m tired.” You sound completely defeated. It’s not easy to deal with constant harassment. “I’ve been getting death threats nonstop all week. I’m genuinely scared for my life now.”

“Come live with me.” He offers, but you doubt that it’ll fix anything. “I’ll protect you, but please.”

“It’ll just drag you down with me, Satoru.” You respond, taking a deep breath to try and calm yourself down. “I don’t want you to get affected by her craziness.”

“I love you.” He blurts out. Ali made the same attempt with him once upon a time, but he actually means the words that leave his lips. “I don’t mind being affected by her craziness because I love you.”

“I’m sorry, Satoru.” You’re about to hang up the call before he can change your mind. But he successfully manages to get another word in.

“I promise I will make all of this stop. Just come to me, please.” He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, and that’s the last thing you want. You just want all of this to end, you want your best friend back even if she’s clearly awful, and you want to live in peace. “I will fix it all, even if I have to beg her.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” You end up hanging up the phone, leaving Satoru with a broken heart. But as much as you care for him– You can even say that you love him, but you can’t keep doing this. It hasn’t even been a month, but your life has been a living hell.

You hear some loud laughter from Ali’s room, and you furrow your brows as you hear it. It’s cackling. It feels as if she knows what happened to you, and it’s causing her joy.

You know that you should walk to your room, and ignore her. You’re apartment hunting, you know that you can’t live under the same roof for too much longer. Instead of seeing what she’s up to, you should lock yourself in your room and figure out a way of how to get out of here.

But you can’t help but press your ear against the bedroom door to hear what she’s doing.

“I would’ve killed to see the look on that bitch’s face. Can you send me the video?” You hear, and you don’t have to listen to another word. You know she’s talking about you. “It’s only a matter of time before she breaks up with him.”

And those words send you over the edge. You clench your fists as your blood begins to boil. That’s all she wanted, for you to end things with Satoru, and you’re not going to let her have her way.

You love Satoru, and you’re not going to let her ruin things between the two of you. She might be miserable with her life, but you’re not going to let her drag you down with her.

You grab your phone and don’t hesitate before calling Satoru. You begin walking to your bedroom, getting ready to have a long heart-to-heart conversation with him.

“Satoru…” You say when he picks up the phone, unsure of how to proceed. An apology is in order but should you tell him that you want to get back together first? Maybe you should ask him to meet up first, having this conversation over a phone call seems improper.

“You’re calling because you regret it.” He says before you can get another word out. He can read your mind so well, it’s ridiculous sometimes.

“I do.” You can’t help but awkwardly chuckle. “I love you too, Satoru. I’m sorry.”

Ali quickly realizes that she isn’t untouchable when she messes with your car again– Not that you would do anything against her. She might be horrible to you, but you still treat her like the little girl that was once upon your best friend. Her error lies in messing around with a car that’s under Satoru’s name.

“I can’t believe she did it again.” You comment, still in your pajamas as you look at the damage. You’re staying in Satoru’s apartment for a while, and you would’ve sworn that she wouldn’t do anything while you were staying with him. But now your car is completely destroyed.

“You sound unphased.” Satoru says, taking pictures of the damage. “You shouldn’t be used to this.”

“She’s going to chase me for the rest of my life. I’m convinced.” You answer. “By the way, can you drop me off–”

“I got you.” He cuts you off, and you kiss his cheek. You couldn’t be luckier. Until he opens his mouth to speak again, “But after we talk to the cops.”

“Satoru–”

“They’re already involved. I’ve been working with some people behind the scenes, and we’re building up a harassment case against her.” Satoru interrupts you, and you feel your heart stop. “It’s going to stop whether you like it or not. That woman won’t leave you alone no matter what.”

“Okay…” You sigh, giving him a subtle nod. You can’t stop him. Either way, you know he’s right. She won’t stop unless she faces some serious consequences. “For how long is she–”

“So far three years.” He reads your mind. “If she pulls something else, we can make it four.”

“That’s not too bad.” You answer, though you don’t believe it. You feel guilty for not stopping him, but he’s right. You know he’s right.

Ali has beaten off more than she can chew, and unluckily for her, Satoru won’t let her get away with it.

You couldn’t be happier a year after your friendship with Ali ends. You were so caught up in the past, that you failed to realize that Ali was a negative in your life. Even though you can’t help but miss the bond that you had once upon a time, you’re excelling without her.

Satoru made sure that Ali paid for her behavior. He got law enforcement involved and she was penalized with a year in jail, and with a hefty fine that ensures she stays off your back. When she found out, she begged that you’d help her but you refused. You listened to Satoru for once, and left her to deal with the consequences of her actions.

Your social life couldn’t be better without her. You’ve gotten close to Shoko, and now consider her as your best friend– And your friendship is so much different than the one you had with Ali. You notice it’s much healthier than whatever you had going on with Ali. Shoko genuinely cares about you, and you feel appreciated by her side.

Romantically, things couldn’t be better either. Satoru loves you like no other, and he lets it be known. He treats you like his queen, always spoiling you and letting you be right even when you’re so clearly wrong.

Though there’s something wrong with him lately. He’s been acting odd around you, and you can’t help but feel nervous… As if you’ve done something to upset him. So it comes as a shocker when he invites you on a date out of the blue.

“Where are we going?” You question him as you look out the window. He’s singing along to his favorite song as he drives you to your destination. He completely ignores you, which makes you nervous. “Satoru.”

“I told you, it’s a surprise!” He exclaims, and his tone takes some weight off your shoulders. He sounds playful… So it can’t be too bad, right?

“Can’t you give me a hint?” You question, and Satoru shakes his head. He’s smirking, which annoys you. He has something up his sleeve and it’s written all over his face.

You finally get to your destination, and no matter how much you bug him for an answer, he refuses to give you a response. You furrow your brows when you realize you’re at the beach. It’s a little late for a beach day, so you’re questioning what you’re doing at the place.

“What are we doing here?” You ask him, but he refuses to give you an answer. Instead, he grabs your hand when you exit the car and drags you along. You’re not letting him get away so easily. “You’re so quiet today, what are you up to?”

Your eyes narrow as you see an odd scene at the beach. Are those… Candlelights? Rose petals? Oh, someone is getting proposed to, that’s good for them. It makes you wonder when Satoru will do the same— It’s not like you’re expecting it any time soon but seeing that makes you wonder.

Then it hits you. Satoru makes an abrupt stop and gets on one knee. Yes, someone is getting proposed to but it’s not a random stranger. Satoru is proposing to you. Your jaw drops, quickly followed by a gasp of pure disbelief.

“I love you so much—“ He begins his speech and you’re pinching yourself to check if this is reality. Two years ago you wouldn’t have imagined that Satoru would be proposing to you of all people. He’s in love with you.

“Yes!” You exclaim, even when he isn’t close to being done to asking his question. “I’d love to marry you!”

Tears of joy well up in his eyes as he slides the very heavy rock on your finger. It fits just perfectly. Satoru stands up from the ground, kissing you ever so lovingly. After all, you are doing him the grand honor of becoming his wife— Allowing him to become your husband.

He picks you up from the ground, spinning you around as if you were his prized possession. He tells you over and over again, “I love you, dear. So much.”

“Put me down, Satoru!” You chuckle, and he does as you ask of him. But he doesn’t let you go before filling your face with kisses first.

You would’ve never imagined that you’d end up here with him, but you did. And you couldn’t have asked for a better destiny.

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thef1diary · 1 month ago

Text

Forgive Me, Father | C. Sainz

summary: returning to religion seems like an impossible task, especially as you’ve lived a life of sinful indulgence, but fortunately, Father Carlos knows exactly how to purify you…in questionable ways

warnings: 18+ content, slow burn, dark!carlos, manipulation in the name of religion, oral (m receiving), masturbation, degradation, praise kink, fingering, spanking, light anal, use of religious items in an inappropriate manner, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, spit kink, choking, breath play, squirting, overstimulation, cum play, blood kink, use of knives.

wc: 23.5k

masterlist

— commissioned by my lovely 🩵 & 🐱 nonnies. This is a dark fic, read the warnings. Don’t like, don’t read. Also, I’m not catholic so some details may be inaccurate

The bass thrummed deep in your chest, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of your heart, or maybe it was the other way around—it was hard to tell. The club was suffused with the kind of haze that didn’t just cling to the air but seemed to sink into your skin. Neon lights strobed in fractured patterns, reds, blues, and yellows smearing together like watercolours left out in the rain. You danced in the middle of it all, a body among bodies, indistinguishable in the tangle of limbs, sweat, and laughter that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes, only reflecting intoxication by one means or another.

Your drink had warmed in your hand, condensation rolling down the glass, forgotten. You weren’t drinking to get drunk tonight; you were already too far gone. Maybe not on anything tangible—not this time—but the hollow ache inside your chest was the same high—emptiness that burned brighter than the neon overhead. You leaned into it like you always did, letting the throb of music drown out the thoughts you refused to name.

Another stranger’s hand found the curve of your hip, his presence lingering just long enough to make you notice. You didn’t turn to look at him right away—there was a rhythm to these things, a game played in the undertow of the music. The press of his body against yours came next, deliberate but not desperate, his movements syncing effortlessly with your own. It wasn’t anything more than lust, only fuelled by the pure, unadulterated mind mingling with unspoken, primal need.

When you finally glanced over your shoulder, you were met with dark eyes and a half-smile that might’ve been charming if you cared enough to notice. He leaned in to say something, his breath warm against your ear, but the words dissolved into the music, incomprehensible and unimportant. You didn’t ask him to repeat himself; you just nodded, tilting your head slightly in invitation, the universal sign for keep going.

His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you closer, until there was no space left between you. His scent was sharp, woodsy, and undercut with something faintly spicy—cologne, expensive but over-applied. His lips brushed against your temple, then your jaw, soft and searching, and you let him find his way. It didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was the way he let you feel the rush of living, at least for a little while.

The transition from club to the street to his bed was seamless, blurred by alcohol and autopilot. You didn’t need to think, didn’t need to process. You let him guide you through the neon-streaked darkness, his hand gripping yours as if you’d slip away otherwise. The taxi ride was a haze of whispered filth and soft laughter, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles that sent sparks up your spine.

His apartment was generic, clean in the way of someone who didn’t spend much time there. You barely registered the details—a couch in muted gray, a framed print of something abstract, the faint smell of laundry detergent that clung to the air. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you with a fervour that bordered on desperation.

You didn’t resist. You let him pull you in, let him press you against the wall, his mouth trailing down your neck as your fingers found their way into his hair. It was all mechanical, rehearsed—a dance you’ve done too many times to count. Clothes hit the floor in a haste, and you let him lead you to the bed, its cool sheets a startling contrast to his fevered skin.

The hours passed in a blur of touches and murmurs, bodies tangling and untangling, the kind of intimacy that didn’t linger, that didn’t leave marks. It wasn’t bad, you’d give him that. But it wasn’t remarkable either. It wasn’t meant to be.

Morning came like it always did, dragging you back to reality with its pale light and dull, persistent headache. You cracked an eye open, the sharp scent of the stranger’s cologne hitting you first—musky, unfamiliar. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air too warm against your bare skin. You shifted, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the unfamiliar curtains, and found him still asleep beside you.

His face was peaceful in the half-light, lips slightly parted, hair messy from the night before. For a moment, you almost lingered. Almost traced the curve of his shoulder or let yourself wonder about his name, his life, the kind of person he was when he wasn’t tangled up in the haze of a one-night stand. But that wasn’t part of the routine.

You moved slowly, deliberately. Clothes scattered across the floor—your skirt halfway under the bed, your shirt draped over the arm of a chair. The bra took a minute to find, caught between a pair of discarded shoes. Each step was silent, measured, like muscle memory kicking in. You’d done this too many times to count, slipping out of strangers’ apartments before the sun had fully risen, before you had to face the awkward small talk or the possibility of vulnerability.

When you reached the door, you paused. Not to look back—you never did—but to steady yourself, to push aside the faint flicker of something you couldn’t name. You told yourself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, and turned the handle.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you’d just left. The streets were quiet, save for the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the occasional jogger passing by. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the faint sting of regret in your chest. Regret for what, though? You weren’t sure.

As you walked, your mind drifted back to the stranger’s apartment, more specifically to the small, battered book you’d spotted on his nightstand while searching for your shoes. It hadn’t fit the vibe of the person you’d met—worn leather and gilded edges. You hadn’t touched it, but the word embossed on the cover had stayed with you: Psalms.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it did. But it brought a memory rushing back, sharp and unbidden—kneeling in a church pew, sunlight streaming through stained glass, the quiet cadence of whispered prayers. You could almost hear it, the echo of your own voice repeating verses you’d long since forgotten.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. It was just a book, you told yourself. Just another reminder of the life you left behind, of rules you didn’t need, of beliefs that had only held you back. But as you turned a quiet corner, the ache inside you—the one you’d spent years trying to drown in neon lights and borrowed warmth—seemed sharper.

Catholicism was part of your foundation, woven into you from childhood like a second skin, But somewhere along the way, that skin cracked. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly. Maybe it was gradual, the questions piling up until they formed a wall you couldn’t climb. Or maybe it was sudden, a clean break the first time you realized life was more fun without rules. Without limits. Without guilt.

The things you were told would damn you—the hookups, the drinking, the thrill of losing yourself in the night—turned out to be the very things that made you feel alive. So you let go. You didn’t turn back. You stopped praying, stopped going to church, stopped pretending to care about a salvation that felt distant and abstract. Life became simpler, freer, unbound by restrictions you no longer believed in. You lived for the rush, for the here and now, for the electric thrill of knowing you could do anything you pleased.

However, the word lingered in your mind like a whisper you couldn’t shake. Psalms.

And for the first time in years, you wondered if the life you’d chosen—the freedom, the endless nights, the fleeting pleasures—was really as limitless as it seemed. Or if you’d simply traded one kind of emptiness for another.

You paced back and forth in your apartment, gnawing at your bottom lip as your thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t like you to dwell on this, to feel torn between choices that seemed so far apart they shouldn’t have even been on the same spectrum. You’ve lived years without this pull, without the pang of guilt or the ache of longing for something you didn’t quite understand. But now, here it is, creeping up on you in quiet moments like this, refusing to be silenced.

Could you even go back? After everything? After living the way you had, the sins you’d committed willingly and often gleefully, the sheer rebellion against the rules you once swore to follow? Or was this all just a fleeting moment of weakness, nostalgia wrapped in shame?

You shook your head, hating the way your chest tightened at the thought of stepping inside a church again. But would it really hurt to try? You weren’t promising anything. You weren’t giving up your freedom, your indulgences, your life. You were just going to test the waters. One service. If it was awful, if it suffocated you the way you feared it would, you’d never set foot in a church again.

That’s how you rationalized it. One hour on a Sunday.

But when Sunday rolled around, the hours seemed to evaporate, and before you knew it, you were standing outside the church. It wasn’t the one you grew up in—thank God. No familiar faces here to judge you, no whispers behind hands as they recognized the “wild child” who’d fallen off the path. This place was different. Unfamiliar.

The building was tall and imposing, made of pale gray stone that seemed to glow in the morning light. The arched windows were lined with intricate stained glass, and the doors were massive, made of dark wood with brass handles polished to a gleaming shine. A single bell tower stretched high above, the sound of its chime faintly echoing in the crisp morning air.

You hesitated at the entrance, your palms clammy as you pushed the heavy doors open. Inside, the scent of incense hit you immediately—earthy, smoky, and strangely comforting. The space was vast, the high ceilings adorned with painted murals of saints and angels, the pews polished and lined up in perfect symmetry. At the far end, the altar gleamed with golden accents, the crucifix at its center casting a quiet shadow.

There was a small basin of holy water near the door. You froze for a moment, unsure, before dipping your fingers in and making the sign of the cross—forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder—all with your right hand. The motion felt foreign but oddly automatic, like muscle memory you hadn’t realized was still there.

You glanced around, watching others kneel beside their pews before sitting. Following suit, you dropped to one knee and made another sign of the cross before sliding into a seat near the back. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you looked down at the polished wood, your heart pounding in time with the faint murmur of voices around you.

The sacristy bells rang out sharply, and everyone stood. You rose with them, your heart hammering. The organist began to play, the notes swelling and filling the space as the priest entered.

He was younger than you expected, his presence commanding despite the simplicity of his vestments. He wore ivory vestments edged in deep gold embroidery. The robes were layered, a chasuble over an alb, the fine fabric catching the light and emphasizing his broad shoulders as he moved with deliberate grace toward the altar.

You couldn’t help but notice how perfectly the vestments suited him, his every movement calm and measured. He wasn’t supposed to stand out—he was merely a vessel for the divine—but somehow, you couldn’t look away. His dark hair caught the light, and his face was too handsome for a man of God. Sharp cheekbones, a strong, shaven jaw, and an expression of quiet authority. Your stomach churned with guilt at the thought, but the realization didn’t stop your wandering gaze.

The mass began with the priest leading the opening prayer. His voice resonated with an almost magnetic pull, commanding attention without effort. You tried to focus on the prayers, on the carefully chosen words echoing through the nave, but your attention drifted to the man leading them.

When the Liturgy of the Word began, the scripture readings washed over you. Passages you hadn’t thought about in years took on new weight as they were spoken aloud, the cadence of the lector’s voice rhythmic and deliberate. But it was during the priest’s homily that you found yourself truly captivated.

He spoke with an eloquence that felt personal, as if every word were meant to reach you directly. His tone was gentle but firm, guiding rather than demanding. And when his dark eyes swept across the congregation, lingering on you for just a moment too long, your heart stuttered in your chest.

The Eucharistic celebration followed, the altar boys moving with precision as they prepared the chalice, the cruets of wine and water, and the golden paten filled with wafers. The priest raised his hands in blessing, murmuring the sacred words over the elements. The congregation echoed him in parts, their voices a low hum of devotion.

When the line for Communion began to form, you hesitated again. You were baptized, yes, but the years you’d spent away from the Church made you feel unworthy. You were a sinner in ways you didn’t even want to admit, and the thought of stepping in front of the altar filled you with both dread and longing.

But you stood, your legs shaky as you moved forward with the others. The line felt interminable, every step closer to the priest making your chest tighten. When it was your turn, you felt the heat rise to your face as he looked directly at you.

“Body of Christ,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

Your throat was dry, but you managed to respond, “Amen,” before holding out your hands. His fingers brushed yours as he placed the wafer in your palm, and the contact sent an electric jolt up your arm.

“Welcome,” he added quietly, his dark eyes catching yours.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re new here. I’d remember you.”

A short nervous laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you nodded. “First time in a long while,” you admitted, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to linger.

“I’m Father Carlos,” he said, his smile disarming but tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “If you ever have questions—or just need to talk—I’m here.”

The weight of his words followed you back to your seat, and even as the congregation sang together for the final hymn, your mind was elsewhere.

When you returned home, you slipped into your room, letting the door close with a quiet click behind you. The weight of the mass still lingered, a strange mixture of comfort and unease settling over you like an ill-fitting coat. Your gaze fell instinctively on the drawer beside your bed, the one that held your collection of toys—your private solace during years of loneliness and indulgence. It was almost muscle memory now, reaching for that drawer at the end of a long day. Satisfying yourself had become routine, a way to fill the void left by the chaotic life you’d built.

But tonight, as you stood there, hand hovering just above the handle, a pang of doubt struck you. Could you keep living like this? If you were truly serious about returning to the Church—about reconnecting with your faith—didn’t that mean letting go of these habits? The thought sent a shiver through you, twisting your stomach in a knot of frustration.

You dropped your hand, leaving the drawer closed, but it wasn’t easy. The itch of desire simmered beneath your skin, and you clenched your fists to distract yourself from the temptation. Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams haunted by flashes of past indulgences and the faint, magnetic pull of the priest’s steady gaze.

The next few days were an uphill battle. You avoided the places that had once been your playground: the dimly lit bars, the pulsing nightclubs where temptation always waited at the next table or on the dance floor. Instead, you stayed home, trying to distract yourself with books and movies. But the silence of your apartment seemed to stretch on endlessly, and your thoughts drifted back to nights spent in someone else’s arms—or their bed.

The memories came unbidden, vivid in their detail. The way their hands had roamed your body, the low laughter shared over drinks, the exhilarating rush of the unknown. Sometimes there had been more than one at a time, and those memories in particular felt sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Your chest ached with longing, but it was more than that. It was the frustration of trying to suppress a part of yourself that had always felt so natural, so vital.

By the second or third day, it became clear you couldn’t keep this up. The idea of refraining from all indulgence—of denying your body its needs for the sake of purity—felt like a punishment rather than a path to salvation. The thought of waiting until marriage was unbearable, a horror story playing on a loop in your mind. And since marriage wasn’t even on the horizon, the idea of living without touch, without pleasure, was unthinkable.

The unholy thoughts became harder to resist. They fed off your frustration, growing louder and more vivid with every passing hour. The memory of a man’s lips trailing down your neck, the press of warm bodies against yours, the shared moans and whispered promises—it was too much. You clenched your thighs and tried to force the thoughts away, but they only came back stronger, taunting you with what you’d given up.

In the quiet moments, a different thought began to creep in: Father Carlos. You remembered how kind he had been during the mass, how welcoming he’d seemed in that brief exchange. He had made you feel seen, not judged, even as you stood there awkward and unsure. And though it made your cheeks flush with guilt, there had been something about him that you couldn’t quite shake. The warmth of his smile, the way his dark eyes lingered just a moment too long—it was magnetic in a way that left you both intrigued and uneasy.

Surely he could help you. Surely a man like him, so rooted in his faith, could offer you some direction. The thought was fleeting at first, and you tried to dismiss it as a momentary lapse in judgment. But as the days wore on and your frustration mounted, it took hold, refusing to let go. You were still running on the high of that brief, strange attraction to him, though you knew you shouldn’t be. You should feel guilty for thinking about him this way. But you didn’t.

It was ironic, really. The old you—the one who embraced every indulgence without hesitation—would have scoffed at the idea of seeking guidance from a priest. Yet now, here you were, unafraid to admit you were lost, that you needed help finding your way back to something that felt steady, something that could ground you.

By the time the thought became a decision, you were nearly vibrating with frustration. You couldn’t continue like this, teetering between desire and guilt, trapped in a cycle of indulgence and denial. You needed someone to pull you out of it, to show you the path forward. And so, one evening, as the sky darkened and the weight of your sins pressed heavy on your chest, you found yourself heading toward the church.

The confessional was small, with dark wood panels enclosing you in a space that seemed built for secrets. You sat down slowly on the chair, your palms damp against your thighs as you adjusted to the intimacy of the setting. The screen between you and Father Carlos offered a sliver of anonymity, but even that did little to quiet the thunder of your heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the faint outline of his figure through the lattice, a shadow of a man who seemed larger than life in this moment.

His voice came low, warm, and steady, breaking through the tense silence. “Take your time. Begin when you’re ready.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice soft but thick with shame. The words felt foreign on your tongue after years of silence, but they were all you could manage at first.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. “Years. I… I don’t even remember the last time.”

He hummed thoughtfully, his tone patient and unjudging. “That’s all right. The important thing is that you’re here now. What’s been weighing on your soul?”

You exhaled shakily, staring at your hands. “I’ve been trying to change, to walk the right path again. But it’s been… hard. The temptations are strong, very strong and I find myself weak in these moments. The things I’ve done, purely selfishly, the life I lived full of pure sin—it’s like I can’t escape these memories.”

“Tell me about this life,” he prompted, his voice soft but firm. “Be honest, as you are before God. There is no forgiveness without the truth.”

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared at the wooden panels, knowing he was just beside you, listening intently. “I’ve… I’ve been with men,” you began, the admission falling from your lips in a shaky whisper. “Many men. I lived a life of indulgence, seeking out pleasure wherever I could find it.”

“What kind of indulgence?” he pressed, his tone remaining calm but carrying an edge of insistence. “Describe it, so I may understand the depth of your struggle.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of shame making it difficult to speak. “There were nights where I… gave myself over completely. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. Sometimes, there were two or three of them at once. They’d touch me, praise me, degrade me—and I… I enjoyed it. I craved it.”

There was a faint shift on the other side of the screen, the sound of fabric rustling, but you didn’t think much of it, too caught up in your confession.

“I let them take control,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I wanted to feel used yet wanted. There was something… intoxicating about surrendering to it, about letting go of everything else and just living in that moment of raw pleasure.”

“And these memories,” he said after a moment, his voice noticeably deeper, though still even, “they haunt you now?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “They come back to me all the time. The sounds, the touches, the way they made me feel… it’s like I can’t get them out of my head.”

His voice softened, but there was a tension beneath it. “Have you continued to give in to these temptations? Have you sought out this pleasure recently?”

Your throat tightened, your shame threatening to choke you. “Not like that,” you said quickly. “I’ve stayed away from men, from bars, from everything that used to tempt me. But…”

“But?” he pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.

You lowered your head, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I haven’t been able to stop myself from… from giving in on my own. I’ve used toys, even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Last night…” You trailed off, your face burning with humiliation.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice soft yet commanding. His hand slipped beneath his attire, fingers brushing against his hardened cock as he gripped himself firmly. He began to stroke slowly, spreading his precum dripping from the tip.

“Last night, I gave in,” you admitted, the confession spilling out of you. “I was alone, thinking about everything I’m trying to leave behind. But instead of praying, instead of fighting it, I reached for my vibrator. I… I used it, again and again. I moaned, loudly, shamelessly, just chasing the pleasure. I let myself fall completely into it, like I used to.”

“And did you feel guilty afterwards?” he asked, his voice slightly strained now, though you didn’t notice.

“Yes, it was unbearable,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough, like no matter how much I want to change, I’m too far gone.”

He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening around his cock as he leaned closer to the screen. “You’ve taken the first step by coming here,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “But to find true forgiveness, you must lay everything bare. Speak your sins in their entirety, without holding back. What else did you do with these men?”

Your voice wavered as you continued, diving deeper into the memories you’d tried so hard to suppress. “There were nights when I’d let him tie me up, blindfold me. I liked the control he had over me, the way he’d whisper filthy things in my ear. And I’d beg him for more. I let him push me further than I ever thought I’d go.”

Carlos groaned softly, catching himself just in time to muffle the sound as his hand moved faster now, the pleasure sending shivers through him. He tilted his head back, his breath uneven as your voice wrapped around him like a forbidden hymn.

“And now?” he asked, his words coming out in a low growl. “What do you desire now?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be free of it,” you said. “I want to stop feeling like this. But…” You hesitated, the truth catching in your throat.

“But what?” he pressed, his voice a little sharper now, more commanding.

“But part of me still wants it,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “Part of me doesn’t want to let it go.”

Father Carlos closed his eyes, his movements growing erratic as he came with a muffled groan, his cum spilling over his hand. There was a long pause on the other side of the screen, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, yet a thread of promise was woven into his words.

“I feel there is more weighing on your heart and soul. Years of sins cannot be wiped clean in a single confession,” he said. “You’ve done well to confess so far but this is only the beginning. There’s still so much you’re holding back. You’ll need more guidance, more reflection. I want to meet with you again—face to face. Privately. These sessions will help you overcome the temptations you’re struggling with. But it will take time, and you’ll need to commit to this fully.”

You nodded quickly, desperate for relief, for salvation. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice earnest. “Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just… help me.”

“Good,” he said softly, though his tone held a weight you couldn’t quite decipher. “Trust me, I will lead you back to the light.”

But as his words settled over you, the truth of what lay beneath them was something you couldn’t see. Father Carlos’ calm exterior masked the darker intentions that churned within him. He would use your desperation, your guilt, to make you his—willingly, eagerly.

“Come to me next week,” he said, the finality in his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Another confessional. Just you and I.”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice a low rumble that lingered in the confined space of the confessional.

You left the booth with your heart racing, the promise of salvation hanging heavy over you. But you didn’t know that salvation would come at a cost—and you would pay it willingly.

The following week, you returned to church, your nerves fluttering in your stomach. Though Father Carlos had assured you he only wanted to guide you toward salvation, the memory of last week’s confession lingered in your mind, heavy and raw. The thought of spilling your sins again—and facing whatever questions he might ask—made your palms sweat. Still, you came, dressed modestly in a long skirt and a high-collared blouse, hoping to show your humility and commitment to change.

The confessional booth loomed ahead, its wooden structure both inviting and suffocating. You stepped inside, taking a deep breath as you settled onto the bench. While you felt more prepared this time, knowing what to expect, the ritual was still unfamiliar enough to leave you slightly uneasy.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice quiet but steady.

“It has been one week since your last confession,” Father Carlos said, his tone soft yet commanding. “Tell me, nena, have you committed the same sin again?”

Relief surged through you as you shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No, Father,” you said, your voice carrying a note of pride. “I haven’t touched myself or been with anyone else all week.”

There was a pause, and then he hummed approvingly. “You’re on the right path,” he said. “Resisting temptation is never easy, but you’ve proven your strength. I’m proud of you.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The relief you felt was quickly overshadowed by the heat rising in your cheeks as you prepared to share the rest. “But…” you began, your voice faltering. “I… I’ve still been having the thoughts.”

The silence on the other side of the screen was heavy, urging you to continue. You took a shaky breath, pressing on despite the shame that burned in your chest. “I—I feel like they’ve been worse, Father. Every time I think of… of the things I used to do, it’s like I can’t stop. And even though I didn’t give in, I feel… wet, almost all the time.” The confession came out in a rush, and your cheeks burned so hot it was as though the weight of your sin had taken physical form.

Father Carlos exhaled slowly, the sound low and measured. “It’s good that you told me,” he said, his tone soothing yet firm. “You must not keep anything from me, nena. Hiding even the smallest detail will only hold you back.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt tightening your throat. “I was so ashamed to say it.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he reassured you, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path. But these thoughts, this… wetness—it is your body betraying your spirit. You must address it, or it will fester like a wound.”

You swallowed hard, your head dipping in an instinctive show of obedience. “How do I stop it?” you asked, your voice small and uncertain. “I’ll do anything, Father.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to do anything,” he said, the approval in his tone sending an unexpected ripple of warmth through you. “Then we’ll take it to the next step. Strip for me.”

You froze, your breath hitching in your chest. “I… I don’t understand,” you stammered. “Why do I need to—”

“It’s the sin you confessed last week,” he said, cutting you off gently but firmly. “You indulged in your body, purely for selfish reasons. Now, you must confront it head-on, under my guidance, so I can truly help you. Strip, nena. Lay yourself bare, and let’s rid you of this burden together.”

Your heart raced, confusion warring with the trust he’d instilled in you. “But wouldn’t that be… a sin?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“No. It is not a sin when done for the man of the church. This is not indulgence—it is penance. By allowing me to hear the full extent of your struggle, I can guide you more effectively. Better to confront this temptation here, in the presence of the Lord, than to fight it alone and risk falling further.”

His words felt strange, yet his conviction was unshakable. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap as shame and obedience fought within you. Slowly, your fingers moved to the buttons of your blouse, your cheeks burning even hotter as you fumbled with the fabric.

“Good,” he said softly as he heard the rustle of fabric. “Do not be afraid. You are proving your devotion. This is how you’ll rid yourself of the sins that weigh you down.”

Though shame curled in your stomach, a strange sense of purpose propelled you forward. One by one, the barriers between you and his judgment fell away, leaving you vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been for a while despite the screen separating you.

“Are you completely bare now, nena?” His tone was smooth, patient, but laced with an unyielding authority that made it clear he expected your honesty.

Your breath hitched as the word escaped your lips. “Yes, Father,” you replied, barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he said, the approval in his voice sparking something deep within you. “Now, listen carefully. I want you to follow every word I say. No hesitation, no resistance. Put your trust in me to guide you.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice trembling with a mixture of nervousness and submission.

"Good girl," he praised, and the warmth of those two simple words seeped into your chest, easing the tension coiling there. "Now, spread your legs for me. And tell me, are you wet?"

Your breath hitched at the directness of his question, but you obeyed. Slowly, you adjusted your position, hiking your heels up to the edge of the bench. The cool air kissed your pussy, sending a jolt of awareness through you. "Very," you whispered, feeling the damp heat between your thighs.

He hummed, "now, slide two fingers down. Spread your folds. Look at yourself, nena. Take in every detail."

Your hand moved instinctively, gasping when you felt the wetness gathering between your folds before spreading them like he asked. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips as you explored the glistening wetness coating your skin, your fingers brushing lightly over your pussy.

The sensation was electric, and temptation won over caution. Your fingers moved instinctively, circling your clit with slow, teasing strokes that sent ripples of pleasure through you. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as your body surrendered to the feeling.

“Stop.”

The sharpness in his voice snapped you out of your haze, and you whimpered softly at the loss, your body craving more even as guilt flared at your disobedience. “I’m sorry, Father,” you whispered, the apology tumbling from your lips unbidden.

“You gave in too quickly,” he chided, the firmness in his voice tinged with calm authority. “That’s not why you’re here. Discipline, nena. Learn to control yourself.”

“I’ll do better,” you murmured, shame and a strange sort of thrill twining together in your chest.

“Slap your pussy,” he instructed, his tone uncompromising. “You need to be taught some manners.”

Your eyes widened at the order, heat rising to your cheeks as his words settled in the air between you. But the pull to obey was stronger than your embarrassment. Tentatively, you let your fingers pull back before snapping them forward with a sharp slap, the sting sending a jolt through your body that made your thighs quiver. A soft cry escaped your lips, part pain, part pleasure.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” His voice sharpened, his disapproval clear, and you whimpered at the weight of his command.

“N-no, Father,” you stammered, the words trembling on your tongue.

“Then again,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Whimpering at his shift in tone, you struck your cunt again, the second slap echoing louder in the quiet room, mingling with the wetness. The sharpness of it sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, leaving you trembling in its wake.

“On your clit this time, harder.”

Using two fingers, you separated your folds again, exposing your throbbing clit to the air. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and brought your hand down with more force. The sound of the slap rang out, wet and sharp, as the sting spread through your core. A moan tore from your throat, unbidden and shameless.

“You like this,” Father Carlos stated, the certainty in his voice making it less a question and more a declaration.

Your cheeks burned, the heat of embarrassment mingling with the undeniable pleasure coursing through you. Even though he couldn’t see you, the weight of his gaze felt tangible. “I do,” you admitted, the words soft and tremulous as you lowered your head in submission. Your fingers stilled, retreating away from your aching core.

“Why?” he pressed, his tone thoughtful yet firm, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul. “How does it make you feel?”

Your throat tightened, but the truth spilled out before you could second-guess yourself. “It… it puts me in my place,” you murmured, the words barely audible as you fought to meet the intensity of his inquiry. “A punishment for being bad.”

A beat of silence passed, his presence thick and unyielding. Then, a low chuckle rolled from his throat, smooth and edged with dark amusement. “Tsk, even punishment wouldn’t work on you,” he said, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his tone.

Your head shot up slightly, startled by his words. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, though your body reacted—every nerve alight under the weight of his teasing.

He exhaled sharply, the sound deliberate. “You heard me, nena. If I were to spank you myself…” He let the sentence hang for a moment, heavy with implication, his tone almost contemplative. Then, his voice dipped lower, carrying a teasing lilt that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d just get off on that too, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat, shame and heat crashing through you in equal measure. “I-I wouldn’t…” you stammered, though the words felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He laughed again, a deep, knowing sound that made your stomach flip. “Don’t lie to me now, not during a confessional” he said, a note of playful reprimand in his voice. “I can hear it in your voice, in the way you’re breathing. You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? Anything to feel this alive.”

You bit your lip, your hands curling into fists in your lap as his words settled over you. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, the truth of his accusation striking too close to the ache inside you.

“Hmm,” he mused, as though considering his own words. “Maybe I should test that theory one day. See how many slaps it takes before you think of it less as punishment and more as pleasure.” His tone was light, almost casual, but the gravity of his suggestion sent a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you finally managed to reply. “I… I’d do whatever you ask, Father.”

His low hum of approval vibrated through the air, a sound that left you aching for more even as it reminded you of your place. “Good girl,” he murmured, his words settling over you like a benediction. “But remember—your place isn’t to crave. It’s to learn.”

“Yes, Father, I want to learn,” you murmured, ready to do anything he asked for, giving yourself completely to him so he could guide you.

“That’s my good girl,” he said, his voice a low rumble of approval that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Now, are you ready to truly listen and follow what I say?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute, surrendering entirely to his guidance.

“Take your fingers and trace them down, slowly. Don’t rush, nena. I want you to feel every moment, every inch of yourself.”

You shivered at his words, your fingers obeying as they moved back to the warmth between your thighs. The wetness grew due to his commanding words, making your breath hitch, and you teased your hole with a feather-light touch, just as he instructed.

“Slide in,” he said, his tone softening slightly, though the authority remained. “Just one finger.”

The tip of your finger slipped inside, the tight heat you haven’t touched in a week making you gasp softly. You pressed deeper, following his guidance, every sensation heightened by the sound of his voice.

“That’s it,” he said, and you swore you heard the faintest edge of strain in his tone. “Curl your finger upward. Feel for the spot that makes your toes curl, the one you’re familiar with.”

You obeyed, your breath hitching as your fingertip brushed against a sensitive spot inside you that made your thighs tremble. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden, and you bit your lip to stifle it.

“Don’t hold back,” he instructed, as if sensing your hesitation. “Let me hear you, nena. I want to know how good it feels, I need to know why you give in to the temptation.”

Your moans slipped free, shamelessly filling the confessional with their soft echo. As you moved your finger in slow, deliberate strokes, his breathing shifted. It grew heavier, deeper, and you could hear the faintest sounds slipping from his lips—soft, almost inaudible groans that made your pulse race.

You didn’t dare ask, but your mind raced with possibilities. Was he as affected as you were? Was he merely listening and guiding, or was he doing more, letting his own body succumb to the same heat that had taken hold of you? Surely, as the priest, he wouldn’t use your struggle of restraint for his own pleasures.

Though, the thought sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, and you bit your lip to stifle the sound it drew from your throat. You pressed your palm against your pussy for added pressure, your body moving instinctively as you followed his instructions.

“Add another finger,” he said, his voice raspier now, the strain unmistakable. “Take your time with it, don’t chase the pleasure, let it come to you.”

Your fingers slid deeper, the sensation both intense and electrifying. A gasp escaped your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what he might look like, what he might be doing to make his breathing sound so laboured, his voice so heavy with need.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, his tone laced with approval. “Keep going, nena. Circle your clit with your thumb. Let the pleasure wash over you.”

As your thumb found your clit, your body arched, the added sensation driving you closer to the edge. The soft sounds escaping his lips grew more frequent, each one fanning the flames of your imagination.

You pictured him there, his jaw tight, his hand moving over himself as he guided you. The thought was almost too much to bear, and your fingers moved faster, the rhythm becoming desperate as you chased the pleasure building inside you.

“Not so fast,” he chided, his voice a strained growl. “You’re too eager. Slow down. Make it last.”

You whimpered at the command but obeyed, forcing your movements to slow despite the ache radiating through your body. Your mind was spinning, the sound of his heavy breathing mingling with your own ragged gasps.

The combination was intoxicating, the not knowing, the imagining, the thought that he might be as undone as you were. It fueled you, drove you to move your fingers in deeper, slower strokes, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice rough and low. “That heat building inside you, the one you haven’t released in a week? Let it take over, nena. Let yourself feel every second of it.”

“Yes, Father Carlos,” you whispered, your voice shaking with the wave of pleasure crashing over you as you uttered his name.

Your body trembled as the high of your orgasm ebbed, leaving you flushed and breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs. For a moment, the room felt utterly still, the only sound your uneven breaths mingling with the faint echo of his steady, deep exhale.

“You’ve done well, nena,” he murmured, “now, lick your fingers clean.”

The command was unexpected, and your eyes widened slightly as you processed his words. Heat flared in your cheeks, but you obeyed without hesitation, bringing your trembling fingers to your lips. Slowly, you drew them into your mouth, tasting your cum as you cleaned them, your tongue flicking over each finger.

When you finally lowered your hand, you whispered, “Thank you, Father, for allowing me this… for guiding me.” Slowly, you redressed, feeling satisfaction wash over you.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost indulgent. “You’re welcome, nena. But don’t let gratitude cloud your understanding. This was a means to reduce your temptations, nothing more.”

His words cut through the lingering haze of your release, grounding you abruptly. You turned your head to look at the screen, making out the outline of his presence. “What do you mean?”

He sighed, the sound a mix of patience and reproach. “Let me be clear. This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.”

Your breath caught, a sharp protest forming in your throat, but his steady outline behind the screen silenced it before it could take shape.

“From now on,” he continued, his voice calm but unyielding, “if the temptations become too strong, if you feel the pull of desire overwhelming you, you will come to me.”

Your pulse quickened at the implication, your thoughts a tangled web of confusion and longing. “I… I don’t understand, Father, will you make me cum?”

His shadow shifted, and a soft, almost amused sigh escaped him. A moment later, he opened the door to the confessional, stepping into the dim light of the church. You hesitated for a second before following him, your heart racing as you stood before him, desperate for clarity.

“Father, please,” you said, your voice shaky but insistent. “What do you want me to do?”

He turned to you, his gaze steady, and though his expression was composed, the intensity in his eyes made your knees weak. Before you could rationalize the thought, the question spilled from your lips. “Will you touch me?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a wry smile, and he chuckled—a deep, knowing sound that sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “Nena,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m a priest, not your hookup.”

Shame engulfed you instantly, your cheeks burning under the weight of his words. You dropped your gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

“But,” he added, his voice softening slightly, “I understand where the confusion lies. What happened today wasn’t for your pleasure. It was for my understanding.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed in bewilderment.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as his hand gently brushed against your arm, trailing down to your wrist. The touch was light, almost comforting, yet it sent a jolt of awareness through your body. “You need to rid yourself of these temptations,” he explained, his tone patient but firm. “Start by getting rid of anything that fuels them. Like your toys—anything that keeps your mind in sin.”

Your lips parted in protest, but he silenced you with a raised hand. “And that’s not all,” he continued. “I want you to write down every impure urge the moment it crosses your mind. Get it out of your head and onto paper.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“So you’re not burdened by it and I can keep track of how far you’ve come,” he said simply. “Every time you visit me, you’ll bring the notebook with you. I want to see how many temptations you’ve faced—and how many you’ve resisted.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his expectations settling heavily on your shoulders. His hand slipped down to settle on your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt almost too intimate, too deliberate. But you told yourself it was nothing. He was a priest, after all. He only wanted the best for you.

As you lowered your gaze, another question gnawed at the edge of your mind. Timidly, you looked up at him again. “Father… even if I do all that—what if I still feel… wet?”

His expression didn’t falter, but his lips curved into a faint smile. His hand tightened its grasp on your waist as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then you come to me,” he said, his tone smooth yet commanding. “And I’ll deal with it how the Lord wants me to.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as his words lingered in the air between you. You nodded, unable to form a coherent response, and his thumb stroked your waist one final time before he stepped back.

“Go now,” he said, his voice returning to its calm authority. “And don’t forget what I told you. I expect obedience, nena. Nothing less.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, bowing your head before turning to leave, your body still trembling from the weight of his words and his touch.

The days had been an endless blur of restless thoughts and scribbled confessions—fantasies.

Every moment had been consumed with the lure of the notebook Father Carlos had instructed you to start. It had become your constant companion, a tether to the guidance and obedience he demanded of you. You carried it everywhere, pen poised to capture every unholy thought that flickered through your mind, no matter how fleeting or detailed.

It was your personal book of fantasies, of sins you’ve been tempted to repeat.

It started innocently enough. You initially started writing on that same night of the last meeting with Carlos, plagued by the memories of what had happened in that confined wooden stall. Even though he hadn’t touched you himself, his words caressed your body, seeping deep into your skin until you were too far gone to remember anything but his name.

That night, you wrote about the temptation to use your toys again, even after he had told you to get rid of them. The urge to reenact the scenario, to feel the unbearable pleasure again was too high. The words spilled out hesitantly, the pen shaky and unsure in your grasp. You felt as if writing them down, admitting them would only make them more real. But the act of actually writing was oddly satisfying, almost soothing in its own way as you filled page after page with filth, transferring the thoughts from your mind to the once pristine, empty pages.

As the days went on, instead of having fewer thoughts, the opposite happened. Your thoughts began to shift towards a different, forbidden path. They stopped being about abstract desires you had, focusing on missing the pleasure in general and started starring him.

You couldn’t help it—he was everywhere. His voice echoed in your mind when you were on your knees, hands clasped in front of you while you tried to pray. As you shut your eyes, all you could imagine was Father Carlos standing in front of you, his commands turning filthier with each word he spoke. You found yourself distracted by the memory of his seemingly innocent touch, the faint graze of his thumb against your cheek. Every Hail Mary became a whispered plea, not for forgiveness, but for release.

In the shower, with hot water cascading over your skin, you caught yourself imagining what it would feel like if he was there, interrupting the steady stream of water with his body, trapping you against the glass walls. You imagined how his hands would feel roaming your wet body, the way his fingers might linger, the press of his calloused palm against your soft curves. You still wrote it all down afterward, confessing in ink what you couldn’t yet say aloud, choosing to obey his command despite the shame creeping up your cheeks.

Even the most mundane tasks became tainted with thoughts of Carlos. Folding laundry, you imagined his robes slipping away, revealing skin you hadn’t yet seen but could only picture in your mind.

By the time Saturday rolled around, quite a few pages of the notebook were filled. The pages were dense with your handwriting, the words getting messier and more frantic as the week progressed. That night, the night before Sunday mass, the urge was unbearable.

You sat at your desk, pen in hand, the notebook open before you. Your other hand, however, was cupping your cunt over your pants, feeling the heat seeping through. You held your palm tightly against your pussy, as if increasing the still pressure would reduce the need that coursed through your veins. You wrote feverishly, the words spilling onto the page as if they might somehow purge the thoughts from your mind. This time, the words were directed at him, addressing him since you knew he would read each sinful word carefully when you see him again.

Father Carlos, you began, the formality of his title making your core tighten with want, you have no idea what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you speak, it’s like my body knows no boundaries. My thighs clench, my heart races, and I can’t help but wonder what you’d look like without your robes.

Your handwriting became messier, the lines slanting as your pulse quickened.

I think about your hands most of all. The way they would feel gripping my hips, rough and firm as you hold me in place. I imagine your fingers dipping lower, brushing against my pussy, exploring me until I’m begging for you to take me. I want to hear you whisper in that deep, commanding voice of yours, telling me how bad I’ve been and how much I need to repent. But the punishment I crave isn’t prayer—it’s you.

Your breathing was shallow, your cheeks burning with a mix of shame and arousal.

Forgive me, Father. Please, guide me to the right path. Punish me. Take me.

You dropped the pen with a shuddering gasp, your head falling into your hand as the weight of your confessions hit you. The ache in your core was unbearable, your hips instinctively grinding against your palm. A sharp cry escaped your lips when you accidentally grazed your clit, but you resisted. His voice echoed in your mind, firm and unyielding: “This is the last time you’ll take matters into your own hands.”

Instead, you grabbed the notebook and headed to bed. You held it in front of you as you lied down, rereading the words, your cheeks burning with shame. At some point, exhaustion claimed you. You fell asleep with the notebook still clutched in your hands, the pages open to the filthiest confession yet.

When you woke up the next morning, the notebook was resting on your chest, the ink faintly smudged where your fingers had lingered. For a moment, you simply lay there, the sunlight streaming through your curtains, the heat of your dreams still lingering between your legs.

Before you could turn the pages and refuel the filth you had written last night, you closed the notebook and pressed it against your chest, as if the physical weight of it could anchor you. You had to face him today. You had to sit through mass, knowing the notebook was filled with your darkest desires, and then meet him afterward, alone.

The thought made your heart race, a mix of dread and anticipation pooling low in your belly. You slipped out of bed, your legs trembling as you made your way to the shower. But even the cold water couldn’t extinguish the heat that had taken root inside you.

You dressed carefully, choosing a modest outfit that successfully hid the way your body ached for something forbidden. As you made your way to the church, the notebook tucked securely in your bag, you couldn’t help but wonder what he would say when he saw the truth of what you’d written.

And more than that, you wondered what he would do. Surely, he would find a way to help you, to rid you of the impure thoughts you’ve been plagued with.

The mass began, and for a while, you managed to focus on the words, on the hymns, on the solemn rituals that slowly filled you with peace. But as Father Carlos stepped forward to deliver his homily, your resolve faltered. He stood tall and commanding at the altar, his voice rich and steady, weaving through the congregation like a soothing balm. Yet, to you, every word felt like a private message, a call meant to pierce directly through your shame.

The church was quieter after mass, the congregation filtering out with subdued goodbyes and murmurs of peace. You waited until there were only a few people left before walking to the backroom—Carlos’ private study. The small, unassuming space was lined with books and religious relics, the air thick with incense and something unnameable that always seemed to cling to him.

He was already there, seated behind a simple wooden desk, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours as you hesitated near the door. For a moment, his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance with a small smile that sent shivers throughout your body.

“Come in,” he said softly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “And close the door.”

You shut the door behind you before sitting down, carefully placing the notebook on the desk. Carlos glanced at it briefly but made no move to open it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his hands folded neatly on the desk.

“You’ve written it all down?” he asked, his piercing gaze studying you for a moment.

“Yes, Father,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grabbed the notebook, opening it to skim through the pages, and you held your breath. “Good,” he murmured, not sticking on a page too long to fully read the extent of your desires. “I’ll read this on my own time, but right now, let’s focus on you.” He set it aside without a second glance.

The words sent a shiver through you, even as you tried to steady your breathing. You wanted to believe that he was here to help you, guide you back to the light. But there was something in the way he looked at you—a flicker of something darker in his eyes. You ignored it, reasoning that it was because you were no longer familiar with the religion. And instead of turning you away, Father Carlos has taken upon the responsibility to guide you himself.

He stood and came around the desk, his presence overwhelming as he stopped beside your chair. His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, a touch that felt too deliberate. “You’re trying,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I can see that. But there’s still more to be done.”

You looked up at him, the heat of his gaze making your cheeks burn. “I want to be good again,” you said softly.

Carlos nodded, his fingers brushing down your arm, his touch too slow, too lingering. “Then you must surrender yourself fully,” he murmured. “Your mind, your body, your heart—all of it must be devoted to God. Do you trust me to guide you?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could think.

He smiled faintly, his hand moving to yours. His fingers curled around your trembling wrist, lifting it slightly. “These hands,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What have they done? Have they served God—or served sin?”

The question made your stomach twist with guilt. “Sin,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Carlos hummed thoughtfully, his other hand coming to guide yours downwards, pressing it to his chest. “Then we must sanctify them,” he said, his tone heavy with meaning. “You must use them to serve, to obey. Only then can they be cleansed.”

His hand moved yours lower, over the fabric of his robe, guiding it with an authority that left you breathless yet completely trusting. When your palm was pressed against his clothed cock, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. Carlos didn’t pull away, only pressing your hand further into him, as he said, “every step I take is for your redemption.”

Your fingers moved barely an inch, and it was enough to feel his cock twitch beneath the fabric, sending a shock through you. When he finally released your hand, you didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He stepped closer, leaning down as his fingers grazed your lips while his dark eyes bored into yours.

“This mouth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “has it been used for prayer? Or for sin?”

Your heart pounded, your breath shaky as his thumb lingered, pressing lightly. “Both,” you admitted, the confession trembling on your tongue.

Carlos’ lips curved in a lazy smirk, his gaze dropping to your mouth. “But more sin, no? Filthy words have left this mouth, obscene sounds…” he trailed off.

“Yes, Father,” you shamefully admitted.

His thumb caught onto your bottom lip, dragging it down, allowing your lips to part. “It’s okay, nena, we can easily fix that.”

Hope fluttered through your chest at his words. “Really?” you murmured, muffled as his thumb rested on your tongue.

“Yes, you’re just in need of purification,” he said softly, pressing down on your tongue only to feel you wrap your lips around it. “Every inch of you must be made pure again. And we’ll start with your mouth.”

He slid his thumb out, only to lean in further. He was so close that you could see every detail on his face—the faint shadow of his stubble on his jaw, revealing that he just shaved a couple days ago, the way his dark lashes framed his eyes, the curve of his lips. Your gaze flicked downward, drawn to his mouth despite yourself, and he noticed.

“You’re trying.” he said quietly, “but temptation clings to you. Let me help you.”

His lips brushed over yours, a featherlight touch that sent heat surging through your body. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The moment you leaned into him, pressing your lips firmly against his, a muffled moan escaped his lips. Just as his hands settled on your waist, a sharp knock at the door made you both jolt apart.

Carlos straightened quickly, his composure snapping back into place. “Come in,” he called, his voice calm, though his chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The interruption was brief—someone asking about the upcoming service—but it was enough to break the moment. You were fidgeting with your hands when the door closed again, leaving you alone with him once more.

Carlos turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Go home,” he said quietly. “Pray for guidance. You’re due for a confession tomorrow—same time, and we’ll begin the process of turning you pure.”

You nodded quickly, standing up and reaching across the desk for the notebook. Before you could grasp it, his hand laid flat on the cover. “I’ll keep this for tonight, nena, I still have to read what you wrote."

The confessional felt different this time. The familiar, sacred space that had always kept you separated by a thin wooden screen was now charged with an intensity you couldn’t name. Carlos stood by the door this time, his hand resting on the frame as his dark eyes bore into yours, unyielding. The command in his gaze sent a shiver through you.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Your legs carried you forward almost against your will, your heart pounding as you stepped into his side of the confessional. The small space seemed impossibly tight with the two of you inside. The door clicked shut, sealing you both away, and the intimacy of the moment thickened like the air before a storm.

“On your knees,” he instructed, his tone soft yet commanding.

You obeyed without question, lowering yourself onto the polished wooden floor. The surface was cold against your knees, grounding you even as the heat of his presence sent sparks racing through your veins. Carlos lowered himself onto the bench before you, the folds of his dark robe brushing against your skin as he moved. In his hand, he held your notebook, the one where you had poured your innermost thoughts—confessions you were nervous about him reading. But here he was, the pages open, his thumb tracing the lines of your handwriting.

“These words,” he began, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp, “do they strike you as belonging to someone truly asking for forgiveness?” His dark gaze lifted from the page, pinning you in place.

Your throat tightened as you struggled to find your voice. “I… I do want forgiveness, Father,” you managed, the tremor in your tone betraying you. “Please. I need your guidance.”

A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and indulgent. He closed the notebook and set it aside with deliberate care before leaning forward. His hand reached out, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against your cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, yet it left your skin burning.

“Oh, nena,” he murmured, his voice softening as he tilted your face upward. “I haven’t given up on you. That’s why you’re here, on your knees for me. You’re ready to be cleansed. And that’s what you need, isn’t it? To be purified?”

“Yes, Father,” you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a prayer.

His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw, before he withdrew his hand. You followed the movement instinctively, your eyes drawn to him as he adjusted his posture. Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted the hem of his robe. Your breath hitched as the fabric rose, revealing the strong muscle of his thighs, dusted with dark hair. The sight caught you off guard, and you fought the instinct to avert your gaze out of respect. Instead, you drank in the vision before you, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to bear.

“Do you see, nena?” he asked, his tone laced with something unspoken. “Every part of me is here to serve the Lord. But you… you’ve strayed. You’ve used your body, your mouth, for sin.” He shook his head, his expression softening, though his eyes remained sharp. “You need cleansing, and as I told you yesterday, it begins with your mouth.”

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. Instead, he reached out once more, his hand cupping your chin as his thumb grazed your bottom lip. The sensation sent a spark through you, igniting something deep within.

“This mouth,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent, “has spoken too many sinful words. But we can purify it, together. Are you ready, nena?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, this time with more confidence, though your voice trembled with anticipation.

“Good,” he said softly. His thumb pressed down, parting your lips until your jaw fell open. “Then show me. Stick your tongue out like the whore you are.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, but you obeyed, your tongue slipping out, wet and ready. His other hand moved to gather the folds of his robe higher, revealing the full length of his cock. Thick and heavy, it rested against his thigh, the head glistening with precum. Your eyes widened, wetness immediately pooling in your panties, your cunt throbbing to be filled. It had been far too long since you had been near a cock, but none compared to his.

Saliva gathered on your tongue at the sight of his cock, a bead of precum spilling out the tip. Carlos chuckled as a drop of spit dripped on the floor, the sound echoing in your ears as he watched you drool for him. “Do you see now, nena? The path to forgiveness is very hard, but it’s necessary. Take it, and I will guide you.”

Tentatively, you licked your palm, wrapping it around his length. His cock twitched in your grasp, and a satisfied groan rumbled in his chest.

“Father Carlos,” you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed against his heated skin, “you’re so big…”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steady, “and you’ll take it all. Every inch or you won’t be purified.”

Your lips parted further as you let your tongue flick over the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum. Carlos let out a low hum of approval, his hand tangling in your hair as he guided you closer. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured. “Suck. Let your mouth be a vessel of your repentance. Take me in—slowly.”

You obeyed, your mouth enveloping a couple inches. The salty tang of his skin met your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper inch by inch. Carlos groaned softly, his hips shifting just enough to press himself further into your mouth. The thickness of him stretched your lips, making your jaw ache, but you welcomed the discomfort, the sensation grounding you in your submission.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers tightening in your hair as he guided your pace. “Look at you, so willing, so eager. This is what true surrender looks like.”

Just as you found your rhythm, the door to the other side of the confessional clicked shut. Your eyes flickered up to Carlos, your lips still stretched around his cock while panic flared in your chest, but he merely smirked, his confidence unshaken.

“Stay quiet,” he instructed softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, feeling the bulge of his cock protruding as he held your gaze. “This is one of your tests, nena. Do not falter.”

A voice came from the other side of the confessional, muffled but audible through the wooden screen. “Father Sainz? May I speak with you?”

“Of course, my child,” Carlos answered, his tone shifting seamlessly to one of pastoral care. His hand remained firm on your head, though, gently urging you to continue.

You hesitated for only a moment before resuming your movements, your tongue swirling around his cock as you tried to take him deeper into your throat even though your jaw ached at the stretch. He nudged his hips forward under the pretence of adjusting his posture, forcing his cock deeper down your throat, earning a muffled gag from you.

The person on the other side began to speak, their voice trembling as they confessed their sins. Carlos listened intently, his words calm and measured as he offered guidance. But his attention never left you. His fingers tightened in your hair with each subtle movement of your tongue, and the weight of his gaze burned into you as you worked to suppress the sounds of your effort.

“That is a heavy burden you carry,” Carlos said to the unseen penitent, his voice steady even as you took him deeper, your nose brushing against the base of his cock, grazing against his hair. “But the Lord is merciful. Seek forgiveness with a pure heart, and you will find peace.”

You struggled to keep your composure, your eyes watering as the need to breathe and the rising pleasure in Carlos’ expression warred within you. The wet sounds of your mouth filled the small space, and you fought to keep them as quiet as possible. The thrill of being on your knees for the priest, so vulnerable, only heightened your arousal, and you felt the damp heat soaking through your panties as you continued your ministrations.

The person on the other side fell silent for a moment, perhaps in thought, and Carlos seized the opportunity to lean down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re doing so well, nena,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t stop now.”

You moaned softly around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from his chest. His hips jerked slightly, and he exhaled a shaky breath before composing himself. “Go in peace,” he said to the penitent, his tone unwavering. “And remember, God sees the effort you make.”

The moment the creak of the other side of the confessional ceased, signaling the departure of the penitent, Carlos’ entire demeanor shifted. The restraint he had so carefully maintained melted away, replaced by an unyielding intensity. His hand tightened in your hair, firm and commanding, as his eyes darkened with a hunger that seemed to consume the space.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a rough, guttural sound that sent a shiver through your body. “You’ve done well, nena, almost done.”

His grip in your hair tightened painfully, and before you could prepare yourself, he pushed you down his cock with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you gagged, your hands flying to his hairy thighs for balance as your body instinctively struggled against the intrusion.

“Stay still,” Carlos commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. His other hand came to rest at the back of your head, holding you in place. “This is part of your penance, nena. You asked for forgiveness—don’t shy away now.”

Your throat tightened around him as you choked, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes and streaming down your cheeks. “I hope you die from this so you can suck me in the afterlife, forever,” he murmured, earning a spluttering mess from you as you tried to respond.

The sensation was overwhelming—his cock thick and unyielding, filling your mouth completely. You could feel the burn of effort in your jaw, the ache mingling with the steady pulse of your arousal.

“Good,” he rasped, his hips shifting slightly, forcing you to take every inch of him. “Let it all out. The tears, the struggle—it’s what cleanses you. Every gasp, every choke—it’s a prayer, a plea for absolution.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn't breathe, couldn’t do anything but surrender to his control. The taste of him was sharp on your tongue, and the warmth of his length filled you, an undeniable reminder of your submission. His words, manipulative and commanding, wound their way into your mind, twisting your thoughts until you clung to them like gospel.

Carlos held you there, his cock buried deep in your throat, until your vision blurred and your lungs burned for air. Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, your eyes rolling back, he pulled you back, allowing you a desperate gasp of breath.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Tears streaming down your face, lips swollen and red. Do you get it now, nena? This is what it takes—this is the price of purity.”

You barely had a moment to recover before he guided you back down, setting a demanding pace. His cock slid in and out of your mouth, the wet sounds of your effort filling the confessional. Your saliva coated him, dripping from your chin and onto your knees as he used your mouth without mercy.

“You’re doing so well,” Carlos groaned, his hips jerking as he chased his release. “Such a good girl, taking me like this. You were made for this—don’t you see? To serve, to repent, to be purified.”

The words sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you clung to him, your nails digging into his thighs. His pace quickened, his breaths coming faster, rougher, until he stilled with a deep, guttural moan.

He withdrew suddenly, his cock slipping from your lips as he grasped himself, stroking hard as he came. Warm spurts of his cum painted your face, hot and sticky as it dripped down your cheeks and onto your lips. The sheer filthiness of the act left you breathless, your heart pounding as his cum marked you completely.

Carlos tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb smeared the evidence of his orgasm across your skin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Marked by a man of God, cleansed by my cum. This is what purification looks like, nena.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your lips before pressing into your mouth. “Lick it,” he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding. “Let me see how much you’ve learned.”

Your tongue darted out, tasting the saltiness of him as you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. He watched you intently, his expression indulgent and possessive, as though you were his most devout follower.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softening into something almost tender. “Purification is a journey, and slowly I’ll purify your entire body, so no sins weigh down on your soul.”

You nodded, your cheeks still burning, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all. “Thank you, Father, for purifying my mouth.”

Carlos smiled faintly, his thumb stroking your cheek one last time before he straightened, adjusting his robes as though nothing had happened. “Take care, nena, and soon your filthy thoughts will disappear.”

You had fallen off the right track, and you felt it with every passing moment.

That so-called purification process Father Carlos had initiated—his words, his touch, the commanding presence of him in the confessional—clung to your mind like a heavy fog. It reminded you of the life you had lived before meeting him, the desires you had buried, of the way you once loved to be filled and covered in cum, utterly consumed by lust.

You didn’t let yourself linger on the idea too long, convincing yourself this wasn’t sin—it was repentance, wasn’t it? Carlos had said so, and you trusted his guidance. But even as you tried to hold on to that belief, the ache he left in your body betrayed you.

Your mouth had been purified, yes, filled by his cock again and again until you were left trembling, gagging, and raw, but no other part of you had been touched. That ache had settled deep in your pussy, a throbbing, relentless reminder of your unfulfilled desires. It was worse than anything you’d ever felt, more intense than you thought possible, and the wetness only grew with each passing hour. By the time you returned home, your panties were soaked through, the fabric sticking to your cunt in a way that made you shiver with both discomfort and longing.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the thoughts—wicked, unrelenting thoughts of him—that consumed you.

At first, you tried to resist, to distract yourself with prayers and scripture, clutching your rosary tightly as though the beads could anchor you away from sin. But each time your fingers brushed over a smooth, cold bead, your mind betrayed you, imagining the rougher texture of his hands, the weight of them gripping your hips, your hair, your throat. Every word of prayer seemed to morph into whispered thoughts of him, of the way his cock had felt in your mouth, heavy and insistent, the way he’d told you his cum purified you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking relief, but it only made the throbbing worse, teasing you with what you craved but could not allow yourself to have.

Walking was torture; each step sent another jolt of awareness to the wetness pooling between your legs. Sitting was no better—your thighs pressed together in search of relief, only for the slickness to betray you, stimulating every shift of your body.

It was unbearable. The heat became a constant companion over the days, slickness pooling and dripping down your thighs, leaving your panties damp before noon and entirely ruined by nightfall. Washing them became a pointless endeavor. You stopped wearing them altogether, the fabric only another tangible reminder of your torment, yet the freedom of bare skin beneath your dress, the air hitting your pussy every time you moved made you more aware of every shift, every brush of fabric. By the end of the second day, you couldn’t even sit without feeling the telltale slide of moisture between your legs, and it drove you mad with frustration.

The nights were the worst. In the stillness of your room, the temptation was louder than any prayer you whispered. Your hands would stray before you even realized it, slipping beneath your shorts, fingers ghosting over the swollen, slick heat of your folds. The first time, you stopped yourself, shaking with shame, tears stinging your eyes as you begged for strength. But the need didn’t go away.

By the fourth night, you gave in. As you lay in bed, the ache became too much to bear. Your hand slid between your legs almost without thinking, your fingers finding your swollen, wet heat. The first touch was electric, and you gasped, your back arching off the bed as pleasure flooded through you.

Your thoughts spiraled back to the confessional, to the way Carlos had brought you to your knees, his voice a mix of command and praise as he filled your mouth with his cock. You imagined being back there, his hand gripping your hair, his hips thrusting as he murmured sinful things about purification and penance. Your fingers moved faster, circling and thrusting as your body writhed against the sheets.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You imagined his cock again, what it would feel like inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. The thought alone was enough to push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you as you cried his name into the dark.

But the relief was fleeting. The ache returned almost immediately, stronger than before, and you gave in again. Over and over, you touched yourself, each orgasm leaving you trembling but unsatisfied. The sheets beneath you were soaked, the air heavy with the scent of your arousal, but still, you couldn’t stop. You imagined his hands on you, his words a mix of praise and degradation, his body pinning yours down as he took you apart.

By the time exhaustion claimed you, your body was utterly spent, forgetting all about the shame of committing a sin and only focusing on the pleasure you experienced after days of resisting.

The early rays of the sun barely kissed the horizon as you jolted awake, your body still warm and bare. The hazy remnants of sleep faded quickly, leaving the weight of what you had done pressing heavily on your chest. You glanced at the stained sheets beneath you, the evidence of your sin undeniable. Shame burned through you, hotter than the pleasure you had indulged in hours ago. You had fallen—fallen far and fast, surrendering to desires you had fought so desperately to suppress.

Your legs trembled as you slipped out of bed. You didn’t even think of covering yourself in layers, grabbing only a loose, flowing dress that hung just a few inches above your knees, not exactly modest. No undergarments, no barriers—it didn’t matter.

You needed to repent. Now.

Carlos’ words echoed in your mind: “Your shame is a sign that you’re on the right path.”

The church doors loomed ahead of you as you hurried through the empty streets, your feet carrying you as if possessed. The stillness of the early morning only deepened the unease pooling in your stomach, but it also spurred you forward. The church was where you needed to be, where you might find absolution for the temptation you had given into so fully.

When you pushed open the heavy doors, the creak of the hinges seemed deafening in the silence. The familiar scent of candle wax and old wood greeted you, grounding you momentarily. The church was empty, save for one figure seated near the altar. Carlos.

He was seated casually, not in the attire you’ve always seen him in. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. In his hand was a half-full glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid reflecting the faint glow of the votive candles nearby.

But what instantly caught your attention—what made your breath hitch and your guilt churn deeper—through your teary eyes, was the growing beard on his face. It was more than just stubble, the kind you’d seen before but which always disappeared before it could grow out. Now, it darkened his jawline, giving him an air of disheveled ruggedness that only fueled the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to banish.

His brows furrowed when he saw you rush in, disheveled and clearly distressed with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Nena?” he called out, his voice warm but edged with concern. He placed the wine glass down and rose to his feet, his movements slow and measured as he approached. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your sobs punctuating every other sentence. “Father… I—I’ve sinned. I tried to resist, I really did, but I couldn’t… I touched myself. Over and over again.”

Carlos’ eyes darkened at your confession, but his expression remained composed, his lips pressing together as if considering how to respond. “Hush, nena,” he said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to sit on the bench beside him. “Take a deep breath for me. Let it out slowly. That’s it.”

Your hiccuping sobs quieted slightly, though the shame still burned in your chest. You looked at him, tears streaking your cheeks, as you whispered, “I deserve punishment for what I’ve done. I—I couldn’t stop thinking of… impure things. I let it consume me.”

Carlos tilted his head, his gaze flickering over your tear-streaked face before dipping lower, briefly, to where your dress clung to your thighs. “Punishment?” he repeated, his voice low, contemplative. His thumb brushed the side of your face, wiping away a tear. “Nena, do you truly believe you need punishment to find your way back to God?”

“Yes,” you whispered desperately. “I can’t… I can’t live with this guilt. Please, help me. Guide me back.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. He leaned closer, his voice soft but weighted with meaning. “I told you, didn’t I? Purification is not an easy process. It is demanding. It is difficult. And sometimes… it requires sacrifice.”

You nodded, his words sinking into your mind like truth. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice trembling.

Carlos’ faint smile lingered, his expression a disconcerting blend of warmth and authority as he stood. But instead of offering his hand as a gesture of comfort, his fingers suddenly twisted into your hair, gripping it firmly. The sudden tug sent a jolt through your body, forcing you to stumble after him as he led you with deliberate steps, your scalp stinging from his grip. His pace was measured, almost casual, as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter, your body following wherever he commanded.

“This, nena,” he began, his voice calm yet dripping with contempt, “is the consequence of letting your body overpower your soul. Look at you. Weak. Trembling. Desperate.” His words struck like lashes, each syllable digging deeper into your fragile resolve.

He didn’t pause until he reached the space behind the altar, where the morning light streamed in from the stained glass windows, brightening the church, giving Carlos an ethereal aura even though his thoughts were quite the opposite. Only then did his hand release your hair, shoving you towards the wooden pulpit, the edges digging into your back.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he asked sharply, his voice echoing in the stillness. His hands didn’t wait for an answer. They found your shoulders first, then skimmed down the sides of your dress, his touch bold and shameless. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, then moved upward, deliberately brushing against the sensitive swell of your tits. He stopped there, his palms pressing firmly over the fabric, testing, checking.

His sharp intake of breath was the only warning before he pulled back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looked at you with a mixture of disapproval and dark curiosity. “Nothing beneath this,” he muttered, his tone laced with mockery. “Not even a shred of decency left in you, is there?”

Your breath hitched, shame and confusion swirling as his hands returned, this time cupping your tits fully. The warmth of his palms seared through the thin fabric, his thumbs dragging over your covered nipples until you flinched. His touch wasn’t gentle; it was purposeful, unrelenting, as if meant to remind you of every sinful thought you’d tried to bury.

“Have you learned anything?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing. His fingers grasped the hardening nipple beneath his touch and pinched sharply, a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your body arching involuntarily. “Or have you simply wasted my time?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he pinched again, harder this time, the sting radiating through you. “No answer?” he asked, tilting his head, his gaze boring into yours. “Of course not. Your dumb little mind probably can’t even comprehend the depth of your failure. But at least you understood one thing—you need punishment. Desperately.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he released your nipple, leaving you breathless and trembling. His dark eyes roamed over you, calculating, as he considered his next move. His hands moved lower, gathering the hem of your dress and lifting it to your waist with agonizing slowness. When his fingers finally brushed against your bare cunt, the sound he made was a mixture of amusement and derision.

“No bra. No panties,” he murmured, his voice thick with disdain.

One hand stilled against your hip while the other teased your cunt, his thumb tracing small circles against your trembling form. “Tell me, nena,” he began, his voice low and biting, “what made you so wet? Was it thinking about what I’m going to do to you?”

He gently spread your fold with two fingers, before using his middle finger to gather the wetness that grew with each word of his. “Or was it what I’m going to make you do for me?”

You couldn’t summon a response. The weight of his words, the heat of his touch—it overwhelmed every rational thought in your mind. Carlos didn’t seem to expect an answer. He dragged his fingers up and down, sliding over your folds easily, nudging your clit a few times.

“You make this far too easy,” he said, his tone cold, biting. “It’s pathetic, really. You’re lucky you came to me. At least you had enough sense to beg for salvation, though I doubt you even understand what it takes to earn it.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, testing your reaction, as he continued. “If this is how you present yourself, do you even wonder why you’re consumed by sin? You don’t resist it, you welcome it.”

Carlos straightened, his hand slipping away, leaving you aching and exposed, a whimper slipping past your lips.

He turned away briefly, retrieving his wine glass from earlier, swirling the crimson liquid in the glass before bringing it to his lips. He drank slowly, letting the wine linger in his mouth before he approached you again. His free hand reached out, gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face up to meet his.

He squished your cheeks using his hand, forcing you to open your mouth. He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just above yours. When you dropped your jaw completely in obedience, his hand dropped to wrap around your throat, squeezing almost painfully. Without warning, he spit the wine into your mouth, the warm liquid flooding your tongue with its intoxicating flavor.

“Drink up, nena,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “This is your final test. If you can’t follow my commands, you’re too far gone into sin for me to save.” You swallowed forcibly, his fingers tightening around your neck, feeling the sensation of you gulping under his palm.

He stepped back, releasing his grasp on you, letting you inhale sharply while he reached into his pocket and produced his rosary. The beads glinted in the bright light, each one seeming heavier than the last as he held it up between you. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his tone almost patronizing. “It is a sacred object, yes, but it is also a symbol of discipline—something you clearly lack.”

He held the rosary out toward you, the cross dangling ominously at the end. “Kiss it,” he commanded. “Pray silently, nena. Ask for strength, for forgiveness, for the resolve to endure what comes next. Because what I’m about to do is not for me—it is for you. It is the burden I carry to bring you back to the light.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the rosary, but the weight of his words—and the shame curling in your stomach—drove you forward. Your lips brushed the cold metal of the cross, the gesture both reverent and desperate. Your whispered prayer was barely audible, your voice trembling as you begged for forgiveness, for guidance.

Carlos’ hand returned to your shoulder, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good,” he murmured, his tone soft but laden with intent. “So you can obey like a good girl, you just need to be put in your place.”

Carlos’ fingers hooked into the neckline of your dress, tugging it down with an effortless precision, letting your tits spill out freely. Your pussy and now your tits were exposed to the cool air of the church, forcing the last shred of dignity out of you as Carlos kept his intense gaze on your body.

His silence was profound, heavy, and yet spoke volumes. His dark eyes roamed across your form, lingering on the soft curves of your figure still covered by the dress as if committing every detail to memory. A slow exhale escaped him, the sound too quiet to carry through the empty space but loud enough to send shivers across your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, carrying that familiar blend of praise and reverence. His hand lifted, calloused fingertips brushing along your shoulder, a hint of greed building in him, needing to see more of your soft bare skin. He tugged the sorry excuse of a dress down to bunch around your waist, before tracing the curve of your arm. His touch wandered, exploring with unhurried intent, his palms skimming over the soft swell of your hips, lingering at the softness of your waist.

“Such a shame you’ve indulged in sin,” he said, almost to himself, his hands gripping your sides firmly for emphasis. The words were biting, yet the reverence in his touch betrayed him, as if he couldn’t stop himself from appreciating the way you felt beneath his hands.

The rosary hung from his fingers, the beads cool and unyielding as they trailed behind his movements, brushing against your heated skin. When the cross touched the hollow of your throat, you flinched, but he didn’t let up. Instead, he let the beads follow the path of his hands, dragging them lightly across the curves of your tits, your sensitive nipples stiffening even further under their cool pressure.

His head dipped suddenly, lips brushing the skin of your mound. The gesture was deceptively soft, almost reverent, before his mouth opened fully. His tongue flicked against your skin, warm and deliberate, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple. The sharp contrast between his mouth’s heat and the rosary’s cool touch made your knees tremble.

A soft moan escaped your lips, breathless and involuntary, but it barely had the chance to echo in the silence. He returned the rosary back to your lips, pressing against it until you obediently parted your lips, allowing the cool beads to slide against your tongue, the faint metallic tang of the cross mingling with the warmth of your breath.

He didn’t pull back immediately, continuing the relentless torture on your nipples, flicking the peak with his tongue while letting you wet the rosary thoroughly. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, earning a muffled cry from your lips. His other hand gently kneaded the softness of your tit, then more firmly as if testing your limits. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple before pinching and twisting it harshly, making a sharp muffled cry fall from your lips.

The rosary rested heavily on your tongue, its smooth, rounded beads pressing against the roof of your mouth. It felt sacred, forbidden, a weighty representation of your salvation, even as his presence and touch felt as if it pulled you further from its grasp. Each bead carried a history of whispered prayers and faith, and yet here it was, in this profane moment, repurposed into something entirely sinful.

Once he released your nipple from his mouth, he retracted his fingers, slipping the rosary out as well, bead by bead, slick with your saliva. It glistened faintly in the dim light, his eyes, dark and all-consuming, followed the motion as though this simple act held infinite power.

The beads dangled from his hand for a moment, swaying like a pendulum, before he began to drag them down the curve of your neck. The coolness of the cross met the warmth of your skin, leaving behind a wet trail that felt almost electric. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the way his movements were deliberate, worshipful yet unholy, his touch blurring every boundary of what you thought was right in the name of religion.

The rosary descended further, tracing the hollow of your throat, the chain tickling against your collarbone before he pressed the beads down the center of your chest. Each ridge of the beads pressed into your skin, a strange contrast of softness and unyielding hardness, and you could feel the trail of spit cooling as it mingled with the heat of your body. His gaze lingered where the rosary had touched, as though marking you with his intent.

He dragged the rosary lower still, over the curve of your soft stomach, the motion unhurried, methodical, as if savouring every inch of skin it passed. He paused for a moment just below your navel, letting the beads rest there, their weight light but unbearably present. His fingers followed, brushing against your skin, spreading the faint moisture left behind, smudging the remnants of sanctity with his touch.

Without warning, he slid the rosary between your legs. You inhaled sharply, the sensation startling and intimate, each bead dragging between your folds, separating them while collecting your wetness on the sacred item, tainting it with your sins. The rhythm was slow, torturous, as if he wanted you to feel each individual bead graze your clit, to memorize its texture and weight against you. His actions were like sins wrapped in the guise of sanctity, pleasure tangled with the echoes of prayer.

He took it one step further. Using his free hand, he held your pussy spread open before pushing the rosary inside your cunt, bead by bead. Each bead stretched you slightly before it gave way to the next, filling you in a way that felt both intrusive and intimate. He watched your every reaction, his dark eyes gleaming with something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“There,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. “Look at how greedy your pussy is, practically begging to be filled by anything.” His words were laced with a hint of amazement, as if he’s never seen anyone as gullible as you in the name of religion before.

When he finally began pulling the rosary back out, you felt every bead dragging inside you, the ridges catching in sensitive areas, making your hips move on instinct, chasing the pleasure. His movements were slow, almost tormenting, as if he wanted you to memorize the way it felt, the way he wielded control over you with something once meant for prayer.

Carlos suddenly turned you around with a firm grip on your hips. He bent you over the wooden pulpit, the rough grain pressing into your skin. The air in the church felt heavier now, stifling, as if the walls themselves disapproved of the desecration happening within them. He kicked your legs apart, his movements sharp and commanding, leaving you no choice but to obey.

Leaning in behind you, his breath ghosted over the back of your neck as he whispered, “the Lord has given me strength to punish you, and I won’t be gentle.” His words were both a promise and a threat, sending a ripple of heat and dread through your body.

You opened your mouth to respond, but instead of a word, a loud moan left your lips when his palm came down sharply on your ass, the impact jolting you forward against the pulpit. The sound echoed through the empty church, a sharp crack that left your skin stinging and your body trembling. He did it again, and again, each strike accompanied by murmured words, low and demanding.

“Such a whore,” he muttered, his voice dripping with condescension. “I have to ruin you to save you.”

His other hand continued to torment you with the rosary, the beads slick and warm now, sliding over you with a deliberate rhythm that left you breathless. Every motion seemed to blur the line further between punishment and pleasure, his twisted sense of control leaving no room for you to question him.

When the rosary was thoroughly soaked, he dragged it from your dripping cunt to your ass, letting the beads linger on your winking hole. Carlos leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your ass, giving you a false sense of security from the tender gesture. It didn’t last long because the soft kisses quickly turned into a sudden sharp pain erupting from his teeth digging into your plush ass.

“Carlos—” you gasped, looking over your shoulder only to be met with a menacing gaze, a lazy smirk playing at his lips.

“Father Carlos. Don’t forget your manners just because you’re bent over, dripping like a slut for me,” he corrected, punctuating his words by leaving the indentations of his teeth into your soft skin again.

“Sorry, Father Carlos,” you murmured, lowering your head, your cheeks burning with shame.

His rough, hairy hands covered the expanse of your ass, kneading your soft skin. He spreads you apart, exposing your dripping cunt to your clenching hole, all for him to take as he pleased. He didn’t ease up even as you tried to squirm away under his scrutinizing gaze, one you could feel even though you’re turned away from him.

With deliberate slowness, he allowed a thick string of saliva to pool in his mouth before letting it fall onto your puckered entrance. The warm droplet lingered for a moment, leaving a glistening trail as it slid down between your legs, settling in the slick heat of your folds. His fingers followed its path, tracing the mixture of spit and your arousal with a teasing precision that made your thighs tremble. He smeared the wetness upward, back to the sensitive ring of muscle he was so fixated on, his touch unrelenting yet deliberate as he circled it.

A soft, shaky cry escaped your lips as the tip of his finger pressed against the tight entrance, testing your resistance before gently breaching it. Your breath hitched, your body involuntarily tightening around the unfamiliar sensation. The warmth of his body radiated against your back as he leaned closer, his chest brushing against your back with every inhale. His lips hovered by your ear, the heat of his breath fanning across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been fucked here before, haven’t you?” His voice was sharp, almost taunting, as he let the cruel accusation linger in the space between you. The edge in his tone made your stomach twist, a strange mixture of shame and excitement pooling low in your belly.

“Just—just once,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, trembling as you clenched instinctively around the foreign intrusion. The confession seemed to amuse him; a low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as his finger pushed in deeper, stretching you with agonizing slowness.

“Just once?” he repeated mockingly, the corners of his lips curling into a wicked smirk. His free hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he twisted his finger, coaxing your body to accommodate him. “That’s unexpected from a slut like you.”

His finger withdrew slightly before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and calculated, coaxing out every sound of pleasure you tried to suppress.

The rosary rested delicately against your skin, its cool, polished beads a stark contrast to the sinful warmth of his touch. With calculated precision, he pressed it just above where his finger was buried inside you, the holy artifact seeming almost blasphemous in its placement. His breath hitched, a low, dark chuckle escaping him as if the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane amused him to no end.

Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding the rosary in, bead by bead, each one stretching your ass a little more, leaving a trail of both devotion and desecration. The smooth spheres disappeared inside, swallowed by your trembling body, as if you were offering up your very being to this unholy act.

Your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the wooden pulpit, your knuckles turning pale. Each bead passed with a rhythmic cadence, almost as if he were reciting some forbidden litany in his mind, a dark ritual performed in your ass. The chain connecting the beads grew taut with each sinful insertion, cool metal pressing against your heated skin, a silent reminder of the holiness you were defiling.

Only the cross remained, the small silver crucifix dangling just outside your hole, swaying slightly with your trembling. He caught it between his fingers, letting the edge of the sacred symbol brush against your pussy, a mocking act of reverence. His lips curled into a wicked smile, and he leaned down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Do you feel absolved yet?” he whispered cruelly, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

It doesn’t take Carlos long to rid himself of his trousers, not when your moans echo against the walls of the empty church, raw and desperate, a melody of need that makes his control falter. You’re on the edge of reason, begging for him to save you, to guide you back to the light—or pull you deeper into the sin you both crave. Although you weren’t certain on what it was that you were asking for, all that mattered is Father Carlos gave in—albeit to punish you but still gave in.

Standing behind you, his breath is hot against your shoulder, the soft rasp of it teasing your skin. One hand wraps firmly around his cock, stroking slowly, deliberately, as his gaze drinks in the sight of you bared and waiting, mesmerized by the holy cross hanging out of your ass. His other hand settles on the soft curve of your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin, grounding you both in this shared moment of temptation.

He steps closer, his chest brushing against your back, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The tip of him nudges against your folds, teasingly slow as he slides along your slick heat—once, twice—each movement deliberate, purposeful. He groans low in his throat, the sound reverent, almost guttural, as he coats himself in you, the evidence of your desire clinging to him like a forbidden prayer.

Carlos glances up at the ceiling for a moment, closing his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible—perhaps a prayer to let his punishment guide you to the right path or an apology to the Lord for straying off the path himself by indulging in sins with you.

He finally slides his cock inside you, inch by inch, until he is fully seated. The stretch is overwhelming, almost too much, and your breath stutters as you struggle to accommodate him. His hands settle firmly on your hips, holding you steady as your body trembles beneath him.

The edge of the pulpit is digging into your skin, the unyielding surface grounding you even as your senses threaten to unravel. Your chest lays flat against the smooth, polished wood, your hardened nipples brushing against it with every subtle movement, sending jolts of pleasure skittering through your body.

Behind you, Carlos exhales slowly, his breath warm against your neck, and you feel the tremor in his hands, the way his control frays at the edges. “So much sin,” he murmurs, his voice low and ragged, more to himself than to you. “So much to purge.”

The cross, hanging out from your other hole, moves with every shift of his hips. It’s a thought that should terrify you, but instead, it ignites something deep inside—a forbidden thrill that coils hot and tight in your belly. The steady rhythm of his movements makes the cross sway, a stark reminder of where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. The juxtaposition of holiness and sin makes your head spin.

“You’re soaked,” Carlos growls, his tone both admonishing and reverent. His hips pull back, only to slide forward again, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The wet, obscene sounds of your cunt fills the air, echoing in the sacred space around you. He shifts his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him with each thrust, and you feel every inch of him—thick, unrelenting—claiming you. “I thought I could guide you away from sins,” he continues, his voice tight, almost anguished. “I thought I could save you by telling you to ignore the wetness. By making you resist.”

He leans over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “But I was wrong. You crave this too deeply, too completely. And now, the only way to save you is to drain you through your pussy. To take every ounce of sin from your body until there’s nothing left but exhaustion—until you can’t crave it anymore.”

The words send a shockwave through you, your pussy tightening involuntarily around him, and he groans, a guttural sound that vibrates against your skin. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward with a deliberate rhythm, each thrust driving deeper, harder, as if he’s determined to fulfill his promise. You can feel yourself unraveling under him, the heat building low in your belly, radiating outward in waves that threaten to consume you.

“Do you feel it?” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Do you feel me so close to taking it from you? Draining you of everything unholy, everything corrupt?” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust that leaves you gasping, your nails scraping against the wood of the pulpit as you struggle to hold on.

You try to respond, but the words catch in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Answer me,” he growls, his fingers digging into your hips. “Are you going to come on my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “So close, Father. I—”

Your words are cut off as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body convulsing around him as he drives you over the edge.

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, his pace relentless, determined, as though he won’t stop until he’s wrung every last ounce of sin from your body.

“You’ll come again,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “And again. Until there’s nothing left. Until you’re too spent to think of sin, too tired to crave it.”

His words are a promise and a warning, and you can feel yourself quickly spiraling toward another orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation and overstimulation. Carlos’ grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, and his movements grow more desperate, more unrestrained, as if he, too, is succumbing to the very sin he claims to purge.

Carlos doesn’t stop, his focus unyielding as if his salvation hinges on your complete and utter surrender. He brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with each thrust, forcing a cry from your lips. Your legs shake, only standing due to the weight of his body holding yours upright, nails pressing into the smooth wooden surface.

Your eyes roll back as another orgasm crashes over you, his fingers unrelenting on your clit until you’re spent, trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. You’ve completely soaked him, creating a creamy ring of your cum on the base of his cock.

When he finally slows, it’s not to let you catch your breath—it’s to adjust. He pulls out, but before you could whimper at the emptiness, his rough palms find your waist and with a swift motion, he turns you around so that your back presses against the wooden pulpit.

The sharp edge digs into your lower back, grounding you in this sinful reality, but you barely register it as Carlos pulls one of your legs up to hook around his waist. His cock slides back in without any resistance, your wetness and cum soaking your cunt down to your thighs. The new angle drives him deeper, impossibly so, and the stretch forces a gasp from your lips. His body presses against yours, pinning you between him and the unyielding wood, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.

The rosary, still nestled in your ass, makes the cross swing wildly now with each thrust. The beads shift and press against your walls, a sensation so obscene and contradictory that it makes your head spin. The weight of it, the texture, the unrelenting pressure—it all blends into an overwhelming storm of pleasure and shame. Carlos notices the way you tense, the way your breath catches in your throat, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice rough with exertion and tinged with something darker. “The weight of your sin. The way it clings to you, refuses to let go.”

His grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you steady, surely causing visible marks to form as a present for tomorrow. His other hand moves with purpose, sliding up your body until it wraps firmly on your neck. His fingers tighten, a steady pressure that causes a sharp gasp to escape your lips as he slowly restricts your breathing.

As the pressure builds inside you, it feels different this time—stronger, sharper, an unbearable intensity that has you teetering on the edge of something unrecognizable. Your palms fly to his hairy chest, desperate to push him away, to escape the overwhelming sensation. But Carlos is unrelenting.

“No,” he growls, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to make you still. His dark eyes bore into yours, his expression a mix of command and reverence. “You don’t run from this. Not from me. This is salvation, and you will take it.”

Your protests die on your lips as the pleasure crests, your body seizing with a force that leaves you lightheaded. The release rips through you, blinding and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his grasp. He removes his grasp on your throat, causing the blood to rush back to your head, sharply inhaling, only making your head spin further. The intensity of it causes him to slip out, and you barely register the loss before you feel him again—his hand wrapped around his cock, slapping the tip of him against your swollen folds, forcing out more gushing cum.

Carlos watches intently as the evidence of your orgasm spills out, glistening and wet, streaming down your thighs. His gaze is dark, predatory, yet there’s a strange satisfaction there, a twisted pride in what he’s done to you. He hums low in his throat, a sound of approval, and leans in closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, “There we go. That’s what I wanted.”

As you tremble against him, he guides himself back into you, his movements frantic, as if he no longer cares if you’re walking the fine line of pleasure and pain. The stretch is almost unbearable, the sensitive ache from your last release making every thrust sharper, but your body betrays you, greedily pulling him in deeper, tighter, as though it can’t get enough of him.

Your cries spill out uncontrollably now, raw and guttural, filling the vast emptiness of the church as you inch closer to yet another orgasm. The echo of your sounds bounces off the stained glass and stone walls, growing louder with each thrust.

“Be quiet,” he spat, “Do you want others to hear? Do you want them to walk in while you’re laid out like this, dripping sin onto holy ground?”

The words send a jolt of shame and excitement coursing through you, but you can’t stop the way your body reacts to him, your noises growing louder despite yourself. He stills for a moment, trailing his hand down to your ass. He pulls his hand away before sharply bringing it down, a loud crack sounding in the air, mingling with your moans.

The sting hasn’t even begun to fade away when Carlos grasps onto the dangling holy cross. You feel the delicate beads shift inside before he tugs it out of you in one slow, deliberate motion. You’re clenching around his cock, begging for friction as he leaves your ass empty.

Carlos doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes burning with something unholy, something wild. “Open your mouth,” he commands, his voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. When you do, he spits into it, the warm slickness landing on your tongue. “Good girl. Keep it there.”

Without missing a beat, he slides the rosary into your mouth, pressing the beads against your tongue. “If you can’t stay quiet on your own, then this will do it for you,” he murmurs, his tone almost mocking. “You won’t make another sound. Not when the faithful will soon arrive for their morning prayers. Do you want them to see you like this? To see what a slut you are?”

The shame floods through you, heating your cheeks, but the way he looks at you—the dark desire in his gaze—only fans the fire inside you. He presses his palm across your lips, forcing your mouth shut at the same time he begins thrusting again.

Clenching around him, your ass feels empty, aching with the absence of anything to fill it. He doesn’t leave it that way for long. His fingers slide over your thighs, coated in the wetness you’ve left for him, and he plunges two inside your hole without warning. You cry out, the sound muffled around the rosary in your mouth, your body arching as he works his fingers deep, curling them with practiced precision in time with his thrusts.

“You’ll stay full,” he growls, his voice harsh and low, every word dripping with control. “No part of you will be left wanting. Do you understand me?” His fingers thrust in and out of you, stretching and scissoring, as his other hand remains on your mouth.

You nod weakly, your vision blurring as he overwhelms your senses. The sound of your wetness as his cock moves in and out of you is obscene, the slick noises mixing with your muffled whimpers and his low grunts. Every movement feels like both punishment and salvation, a deliberate reminder that you are completely at his mercy.

“Good,” he breathes, leaning down to press his lips to the shell of your ear. “Now, be a good little whore and take everything I give you. We wouldn’t want to disturb the faithful, would we?”

Your eyes widen at his words, and you shake your head to the best of your abilities while restrained beneath his hand. His thrusts are deliberate and unrelenting, as though he’s punishing you for every transgression. His fingers slide in and out of your ass, a rhythm that feels both torturous and divine. The small, gilded cross hanging from his neck catches the faint light, swaying with every shift of his body. It dangles dangerously close to your lips, a reminder of the sanctity you’re defiling—and the punishment to resume on the path of purity he insists he’s granting.

Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the sensations he’s forcing out of you. Every orgasm has chipped away at your restraint, leaving you raw and exposed. This time, when you squirt, it’s with a desperate cry muffled against his palm. A fresh wave of pleasure surges through you, and your body reacts instinctively, wetness spilling onto his, leaving no doubt of your surrender.

His lips ghost across your temple, a false act of reverence. “Look at you now—so beautifully broken, so… clean.”

His pace quickens, his own restraint fraying as he chases his release. When he finally stills inside you, the warmth of him fills you completely, his cum spilling deep as if to claim you entirely. He exhales a low, satisfied groan, his head tilting back, exposing the strong column of his throat.

“This,” he says, his voice softer now, reverent almost, “is your purification. My cum, a baptism to rid you of every impurity.”

Your vision blurs, the room spinning as exhaustion pulls at your limbs, leaving you pliant, vulnerable. You barely register when he removes his hand from your mouth, slowly slipping the rosary out, but you inhale sharply, your chest rising with a desperate gasp. His lips find your jaw, their path deliberate and searing, branding your skin with whispered promises of redemption.

The faint glow of flickering candlelight mingles with the sun’s muted rays streaming through the stained glass windows. Colours dance across his face, painting him in hues of red and gold, as though divine light itself had anointed him. For a fleeting moment, he looks holy—an angel cloaked in shadow, his presence both damning and sanctifying.

He pulls out of your used, aching cunt, his cum spilling down your thighs. The sight is obscene, vulgar even, but Carlos’s gaze is steady, reverent, as if each drop is a testament to your purification.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice trembling with exhaustion and something dangerously close to gratitude. “For cleansing me of my sins.”

His eyes narrow, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Oh, slut,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you can question him, he turns toward the wooden pulpit, his movements smooth, purposeful. Your heart pounds as he retrieves a small pocket knife. Your breath hitches, fear prickling at your skin as he flips it open, the metallic click reverberating like a warning, it’s blade gleaming wickedly in the light.

“Father Carlos,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “Why… why do you have that?”

His breath fans across your face, warm and deliberate. “Religion,” he begins, his voice smooth and laden with a false reverence, “is not merely about worship. It’s about sacrifice. Surrender. It’s giving every piece of yourself to God. And here, now, you give it to me, as His vessel.”

You shiver as his words sink into you, their weight unbearable yet irresistible. He speaks with the conviction of a preacher delivering salvation, and though you can’t grasp the truth within his claims, his unwavering gaze seems to dim the edges of your resistance.

Carlos lets the blade linger in the air for a moment before dragging it slowly down the bunched fabric of your dress, the ripping sound loud and jarring in the heavy silence of the church. The knife’s edge glides close to your skin but never touches, a taunting reminder of his control. The ruined fabric falls away, leaving you exposed beneath the warm, watchful gaze of flickering candles.

“You’re afraid,” he murmurs, cupping your chin with his free hand, forcing your gaze to meet his. “But don’t be. This is holy. This is right.”

Your lips tremble, a feeble protest forming in the back of your throat, but he’s already moving. He holds his palm out to you, his fingers steady and commanding. “Give me your hand,” he orders, and though every fiber of your being screams to pull away, you find yourself obeying.

Slowly, you lift your trembling hand and place it in his. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, grounding you even as your heart pounds in terror.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with approval, as though you’ve passed a sacred test. He flips your hand over, palm facing upward, and trails the knife’s tip along the delicate lines etched into your skin. The touch is featherlight, more teasing than threatening, but the cold steel sends shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. “What… what are you going to do?”

Carlos tilts his head, his expression serene, almost beatific. “Make you mine,” he says simply, as though the answer is self-evident. “For all your life, you will belong to me.”

His words worm their way into your mind, pulling at the edges of your resistance. You don’t know the Bible well enough to challenge him, but something inside you weakens as his deep voice continues to promise that this is for your own good, that this sacrifice will lead you to the right path indefinitely. His faith, twisted as it is, seems unshakable, and you find yourself caught in its gravity.

The knife gleams, almost mockingly at your gullibility, as he continues to draw it lightly across your skin. You wince at the sting, but it’s nothing compared to the way his words penetrate deeper, whispering how this is the only way to be whole. He’s not just a man with a knife in his hand—he’s an answer, a guide. And in this moment, his words start to make sense.

His voice is almost reverent now as he finishes his sentence: “You will be mine, just as you are God’s. This is the final step.”

The blade cuts deeper, and you gasp, the warm blood flowing freely from the small wound. Your heart races, and there’s a part of you that wants to recoil, to protest. But Carlos’ grip on you tightens, unyielding. The tip of the knife is stained with your blood, and without a second thought, he licks it off, his tongue savoring the taste of your surrender. His eyes never leave yours, filled with a darkness that sends shivers down your spine.

Carlos watches as the blood pools in your palm, crimson and warm, a stark contrast against the pale trembling of your fingers. His dark eyes gleam with something unspoken, something insidious, as though the sight of your sacrifice—your surrender—has unlocked a primal satisfaction deep within him. The knife clatters softly against the wooden pulpit as he sets it aside, the sound barely audible over the erratic rhythm of your breath.

You flinch as his fingers dip into the blood, warm and slick, and press into the fresh wound. The sharp sting makes you gasp, a soft, broken sound that escapes before you can stop it. His lips curl into a smile—soft, almost benevolent—as though your pain pleases him in a way he can barely contain.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough, thick with satisfaction. There’s no concern in his tone, no true care for your answer. It’s a question meant to remind you that he is in control, that your pain is his to command.

You manage a shaky nod, unable to meet his gaze as he presses harder against the cut, eliciting another whimper from you.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to move his finger, dragging it through the blood. You can feel the warmth of it spreading as he marks you, tracing the unmistakable shape of a cross over your chest. The gesture feels intimate in a way that leaves you unsteady, as though the very essence of you is being claimed, piece by piece, with every deliberate stroke of his finger.

You flinch as he presses his fingers firmly into your skin, sealing the symbol with a finality that makes your stomach twist. His hand lingers, the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a brand.

“The cross,” he says, his voice reverent but laced with something far darker, “is the seal. The mark of what you are now—what you’ve given to me.”

Your chest tightens at his words, at the weight of the moment. You try to convince yourself that this is holy, that it’s right, but there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that whispers otherwise. Still, his words have a power over you that you can’t resist, a pull that drags you deeper into the illusion he’s weaving.

“Now,” he whispers, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. You shudder at the warmth of his breath, at the faint taste of your blood still lingering on his tongue. “Now, you belong to me.”

The weight of his statement settles over you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Your body trembles, your mind reeling, but deep down, you know that it’s already too late. For all your hesitations, for all your doubts, you’ve given yourself to him—completely, irrevocably.

The first drop of blood hits the stone floor, the sound sharp and loud in the oppressive silence of the church. You watch as it pools at your feet, crimson against the gray stone, and a soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, heavy with confusion and something dangerously close to desperation.

He coos at you, his tone almost soothing, but there’s a mockery in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. “Hush, nena,” he murmurs, his hand closing over yours once more. “Don’t cry. It won’t go to waste.”

With that, he brings your trembling hand closer to his mouth. You watch in horrified fascination as he lets a ball of spit fall onto your palm, the moisture stinging the cut as it mixes with the blood. Your breath hitches, the pain sharp and immediate, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he flattens his tongue against the wound, licking and swallowing the metallic taste of your blood with deliberate slowness.

The intimacy of the act is unbearable, leaving you frozen and helpless as he continues, his tongue dragging over your palm as though savoring every drop. “Divine,” he mutters, his voice thick with satisfaction, “absolutely divine.”

The blood hasn’t stopped flowing, and as you feel the last remnants of your resistance begin to crumble, Carlos moves with purpose, his hands firm as he pushes you down onto your knees.

“Now,” he says, his tone taking on a commanding edge, “pray to me as you would to the Lord.”

Your lips part in protest, but the words never come. He tilts your chin up, his gaze locking with yours, dark and unyielding. “I am the man of God,” he continues, his voice a low growl that reverberates through you. “I hold the key to your salvation. And you, my little slut, will prove your devotion.”

Behind him, the enormous wooden cross looms, its shadow stretching over him. The faint light from the candles dances around the edges of the symbol, giving it an almost celestial glow. It frames him perfectly, a mockery of holiness, as though he himself is the vessel of divinity. Standing tall and unshaken, he becomes something larger than life, something terrible and magnetic.

You, in contrast, are on your knees before him, stripped bare of your defenses, trembling as though the weight of his words alone could crush you. The image is unshakable: him towering like a god while you kneel as a humble supplicant, desperate and lost.

The air feels heavy, thick with the kind of silence that fills a church just before a hymn begins. The cross behind him seems to pulse, a reminder of the faith you thought you knew, now distorted by his presence. Your heart races, your mind screams that this is not worship, this is not holy—but the power in his voice, the weight of his authority, leaves no room for dissent.

Shakily, your trembling hands clasp together, fingers interlocking in a feeble attempt at prayer. You close your eyes, each breath shallow and uneven as you bow your head. The words that escape your lips are foreign, wrong—they are not for the Lord you once prayed to, but for him. For the man who now claims to hold the keys to your salvation, for the dark, twisted force that has wrapped itself around your soul.

Your blood trails in uneven rivulets down your arm, tracing your trembling skin. The sight of you is unholy—blasphemous—yet it is precisely how he wants you: on your knees before him, utterly undone. Bare, vulnerable, tears streaking your cheeks, and a cross smeared across your chest in the crimson hue of your own sacrifice. The blood dripping from your palm stains the floor in dark, damning blotches, marking the sacred space as profane.

His cum still leaks from your pussy, a viscous reminder of the way he’s claimed you, defiled you. You are ruined, completely and utterly wrecked, and even then, it is not enough for him.

Carlos’ smile is slow, deliberate, and so full of satisfaction that it feels like a blade sinking into you. He steps closer, his presence looming, his shadow cast by the cross falling over your kneeling form. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, dripping with approval as though your surrender is a sacred offering. “Worship me.”

His words settle over you like a benediction and a curse, heavy with false sanctity. In this moment, he has made himself your god, a figure of twisted devotion and unrelenting control. And though a small, flickering part of you screams to break free, it is drowned out by the overwhelming need to obey.

Carlos eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that borders on cruel. His satisfaction is palpable, a weight in the air that presses down on you as you try to steady your breath, though the tears keep coming. The sting of the cut on your palm hasn’t dulled, each pulse of pain grounding you in this twisted reality you’ve surrendered to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery and delight. His fingers find your wrist. The grip is firm, possessive, and you shudder as he lifts your bleeding hand into the space between you. The blood flows freely, trickling in thin lines down your fingers. He watches it as though transfixed, his thumb brushing over your palm in a way that makes you wince.

“You’ve given so much to me,” he says, his tone reverent, though his gaze holds none of the holiness his words suggest. “But you’re not done yet.”

He guides your hand toward him, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he’s savouring every second of your hesitation, your trembling compliance. His cock is hard and waiting, and your stomach churns as your bloody hand is wrapped around it. The warmth of him, the slickness of your blood spreading across his skin, makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Do what you know best, nena,” he commands, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that leaves no room for defiance.

Your fingers tremble as you begin to move, the pain from your cut sharp with every motion. The blood coats him in uneven streaks, glistening and crimson, each stroke smearing more of your sacrifice onto him. The metallic scent of it fills the space between you, heavy and suffocating, and yet, you find yourself lost in the way he watches you. His eyes are half-lidded, the satisfaction in his expression undeniable, and for reasons you can’t comprehend, it’s all you need to keep going.

“You’re such a slut for me…what if someone walked in right now? You wouldn’t stop worshipping me, would you?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, rougher

The words send a chill down your spine, your cheeks flushing with shame and something darker, something you’re too broken to name. You can’t meet his gaze, but you feel it boring into you, devouring you. The thought of a devotee seeing you like this—wrecked, desperate, ruined—makes your stomach twist, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and his smile widens, wicked and approving.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’re too good for me, too devoted. You’d stay here, on your knees, with your blood on my cock and tears on your face, just like this. Wouldn’t you?”

You nod, your movements becoming steadier despite the pain. Each pained motion of your hand draws a groan from him, low and guttural, his head tipping back in a display of raw, unrestrained pleasure. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the ache in your wrist and the sting in your palm, you keep going, desperate to hear more, desperate to see more of the satisfaction that’s written across his face.

When he finally cums, it’s with a sharp exhale, his hand snapping to your wrist to still your movements. You barely have time to register what’s happening before the warmth of it splashes across your face and your tits. The sticky warmth of it mingles with the blood smeared across your skin, soaking into the cross he’d drawn on you. The lines blur, ruinous and obscene.

Carlos’ chest heaves as he comes down from his high, his expression softening into something almost tender, though the darkness in his eyes remains. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the smeared mess on your chest. His touch is slow, deliberate, as he presses the mixture of blood and his cum deeper into your skin, ruining the cross entirely.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “Now you’re perfect.”

He lifts his thumb, coated in the remnants of the act, and brings it to your lips. His gaze pins you in place, unrelenting, and you know what he wants without him having to say it. You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat, but his thumb brushes against your lips, insistent.

“Clean it,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

Your lips part slowly, and he presses his thumb into your mouth. The taste is bitter, metallic, and foreign, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. His eyes remain fixed on you, watching every movement of your tongue as you obey, and the weight of his approval is suffocating, all-consuming.

When he finally pulls his thumb away, his smile returns, dark and knowing. “You’ll be back,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “You can’t stay away, can you? From sinning. From me.”

You feel the words settle deep within you, a truth you can’t deny, no matter how much you want to. The part of you that knows this is wrong, that screams this isn’t devotion or love, is drowned out by the part of you that craves his approval, his praise, his touch.

“But that’s okay,” he continues, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Because I’ll always be here to help you. To guide you. To remind you of who you belong to.”

You manage a weak smile, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. You’re too far gone, too manipulated, too consumed by him to see the depth of his control. Every word he speaks feels like scripture, every command like a divine decree, and you find yourself nodding, willing to follow him wherever he leads, like his most devoted servant.

In this moment, you are his, wholly and irrevocably. As the tears streak your face, as the blood dries on your skin, you realize you can’t regret it. You don’t want to. You’ve given yourself to him, and there’s no turning back.

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camisoledadparis · 3 months ago

Text

Richmond "Jimmie" Barthe (1909-1989) was an African-American sculptor and a key figure in the Harlem Renaissance in the 1930s. That he was also a gay man who expressed his orientation in his work is most likely why he fell into obscurity by the 1940s.

Much of his art depicted African-American men in sensual poses, often nude. Today, his work seems not that confrontational, but in a basically racist, sexually nervous America of the middle of the last century, it is remarkable that his work received the acclaim that it did.

Barthe was born to Creole parents in Bay St. Louis, Miss., and his art brought him out of poverty. A beautiful, bright boy, he was already winning awards for his drawings by the age of 12. Inspired by the neoclassical art he saw in the homes of the wealthy folks he worked for as a houseboy in New Orleans, he developed a lifelong interest in Greek and Roman mythology.

Funded by his local church, he attended school at the Art Institute of Chicago and began to have adult affairs with men who sometimes became patrons. He also had a brief affair with author and actor Richard Bruce Nugent, who was a cast member in Dubose Heyward's play Porgy.

In 1930 he relocated to New York and attended A'Leila Walker's "Dark Tower" gatherings, known as a venue where black and white men and women, often gay, mingled. The photographer and writer Carl Van Vechten was deeply involved with the black community of New York in the '30s and was an ardent supporter of Barthe's work. His reputation grew and his work was included in a 1935 exhibit of African-American art at the Museum of Modern Art.

He had success and fame. He even had a female patron who set up a trust for him that gave him the freedom to work without financial worries. But he was still an outsider in many ways. He was not a part of the white art world, and his uncompromising homosexuality kept him distanced somewhat from other artists of the Harlem Renaissance. His love life was a series of short affairs that never developed further.

Constantly searching for community, he moved to Jamaica only to find himself even more estranged from others. He fell into deep depression and mental illness. Commissions came sporadically, and he met them with varied results, teetering on the edge financially and emotionally.

In 1975 he moved to Pasadena, Calif., and a year later curators at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art included his work in "Two Centuries of Black American Art." The attention to his work, the growing respect of a younger audience to artists of the Harlem Renaissance, and the support of his friends brought Barthe stability once again. He lived out his later years as a treasured part of the art community, dying in Pasadena March 6, 1989.

(The Advocate)

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jyoongim · 1 year ago

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Hiii

Alastor X human!reader where she is desperate to make a deal for fame and glory.

She tries to summon a demon, accidentally conjuring Alastor. Beside her feisty facade she’s quite innocent and naive. He’s intrigued by her and toys with her, like a prey,tricking her into him, she signs the deal. He’ll come back after 1yr to collect his pretty little prize…her body and soul. 🌶️🔥

Title: A Price to Pay

part 2

You frowned at the check your boss had handed you.

Too little. You looked at your boss, a nervous smile on your lips as a laugh bubbled out of your throat ”haha this is half of what i should be getting. That’s funny, where's the rest? Am i getting that in cash or some?” Your boss laughed “HA! No thats what you’re getting for the week‘

Your eyes damn near popped out of your head.

For the week?

This was your pay for the entire week?

Oh hell no!

You poked a finger into the mans chest “What?! The whole week? I’ve been singing my ass off in this shit hole for two weeks! Where are my commissions?” You were angry!

He gave a low laugh as he pulled out a cigar ”You think just because you’re my best in this joint that I wasn’t gonna get the Final Cut? You better take it before i hand your ass nothing”

You sniffled as you wiped at your runny nose.

The yellow paper with EVICTION stared at you as you felt another wave of tear hit you.

Why?

Why couldn’t you just make enough to stay afloat?

Why did you have to suffer?

Why didn’t fate grant you mercy?

You had been busting your ass for months trying to make enough money to just pay the damn pills.

You were the best singer on your side of town and that shit hole needed a singer almost every night and when big shots went there. The money wasn’t terrible, it beat standing out on the pier at night, waiting to be taken to gods know where.

You laughed dryly, you would gladly get pimped out if it meant that you could still afford food to eat.

Why was life so cruel?

You had worked so hard and it felt like it was all for nothing.

You could hear your momma in your head

”You wanna dream big? Then never let life beat you down. Take it by the balls and make your dream a reality”

The next thing you know, you found yourself pulling out your mother’s old grimoire and drawing symbols on your bedroom floor.

what the hell were you doing?

You used to scoff at your mother when she did spells.

Because magic wasn’t real…right?

But it felt like you had no other option as you threw some herbs into the small fire pot.

Momma used to tell you about all types of things that were possible with a little magic. That you always had friends on the other side who could help if you knew what you doing.

And you indeed had no fucking clue.

But you were tired, angry, and desperate and wanted to do something about it.

This was your life!

You felt your body tingle as you chanted the incantation.

The room turned cold and the fire from the candles blew out. The building started to shake as you spoke the last verse and suddenly you were thrown back from an explosion in the middle of your pentagram.

You watched in terror as the floor glowed red and rising from the smoke was a very large demon.

You panicked as it began to stand, gulping at its full height.

Oh what did you just do?

—————————————————

Alastor blinked as he stood. Fanning the smoke away from his face, he grimaced once he saw the pentagram, candles, and herbs. Who dared? His ears perked at the sound of heavy breathing. He turned his head and red eyes caught sight of a mortal woman standing against the wall, eyes wide.

He took a step towards her, head tilting as she cowered away. He huffed as he got to the edge of the protection boundary. He gave her a smile, sharp teeth glistening with narrowed eyes

“Hello my dear”

——————————————————————

You took in the tall demon that stood in your bedroom.

He was dressed like one of those fancy gents.

Red and black tailored suit with a cane.

You watched as he curled his lip when he saw your protection boundary. You felt your body freeze as his eyes met yours.

Red.

Glowing red.

He was rather handsome looking for a demon.

He reminded you of-

“Deer” you squeaked, causing Alastor to tilt his head, ears flicking.

oh come on! You can’t be scared of something that you’re in control of!

”Hello my dear” you heard him say. He stood on the cusp of the salt boundary giving you his full attention.

That smile of his was very uncanny.

You shivered.

You found your nerves and puffed your chest out

”Hello demon-sir”

”Alastor” you blinked at him “w-what?”

He never lost that smile “The names Alastor. Pleasure to meet you” you were at a lost for words. Alastor took your silence to look around, your spellbook caught in his attention before he took you in.

You cleared your throat “I summoned-” “conjured” “You to um make a deal?” You said uncertain

Alastor smirked “oh reallly? And what makes you think Ill make a deal with a human like you?”

You frowned ”You don’t have a choice! I summoned YOU here you have to do what I ask!’

He laughed darkly “Oh my dear that isn’t how things work” he looked back at the salt ”lets chat”

You didn’t trust him, but he seemed friendly girl don’t do it

you inched close and with a sweep of your foot, dusted a bit of the salt to let him through.

Alastor stepped through and now you were being towered over.

Alastor took you in.

what a small thing you were. He was sure you had no idea what you were doing or dealing with.

But if it was deal you wanted, he will grant that.

”What do you want?”

You wrung your hands nervously as you spilled your sad excuse of a life and your far fetched dream.

You felt a surge of determination as you finished your little rant “That’s why I need a deal! I deserve to rise to the top! I’ve worked my ass off for years and nothing! Why-Why should I settle for this? My life deserved to be full of glamor and money! I deserve that right? Right! S-s-so what do you say”

Oh what an innocent thing you were.

Such a fire that had nowhere to burn.

Perfect

Alastor feigned mulling it over, your face dropping as he walked away from you.

”A deal works both ways my dear”he started as he turned back to you “What will you give me in return?” His smile stretched across his face as his calm facade faded.

You gulped but you were not gonna back out “Ill give you anything j-just please I don’t care what I have to do!”

He was in front of you in a flash, making you take a step back nervously

“Anything?” A clawed hand squished your cheeks hard as he leaned his face to yours

”prove it” he purred

You blinked. How the hell were you suppose to do that?

Nothing in this world is free. Your momma taught you that and your warning bells were screaming.

His thumbs was running over your lips and you opened your mouth to suck it.

You could die right now. Was this worth it? To give up your dignity to a demon?

Alastor growled and in a swift motion, you were on your bedroom floor, heart thumping in your ears as you looked up at the demon on top of you.

Alastor’s free hand swiped down your body, tearing your clothes to shreds, leaving you naked.

You felt a soft heat curl in your stomach.

Alastor laughed darkly as he took in your naked form. His hand dipped down and thumbed at the small bundle of nerves, causing you to jolt.

Oh he was going to have fun with you

”One year.” He said as he dipped a finger into your tight heat.

You gasped around his finger.

”You’ll get your fame. You’ll have riches and power beyond your imagination. A top star. It’ll all be yours. But in one year you are mine. Your soul and body. Do we have a deal?” He was slowly fingering you, relishing in the softness your cunt offered as it squeezed around him.

Your body and soul in exchange for glory.

Did you still want this?

”yes” you whimpered

A green glow emitted around the two of you. Alastor eyes glowed and his antlers grew as he plucked his thumb from your mouth and slammed his lips onto yours as he rubbed your clit as he slammed his fingers into you.

”mmmhmm hmmm!’ You cried into his mouth as your orgasm hit you.

Your cunt clenched around him, creamy slick drowning his hand.

Your body buzzed as he retracted his fingers, watching in bliss as he licked your cum off his fingers.

”Oooh such a sweet cunt” He Purred at you as he scooped you up into his arms to lay you on your bed.

”Ill always keep close watch my dear, so don’t think you can back out of this” he said, you blinked sleepily as you felt the coldness of a necklace clasped around your neck.

“One year my dear”

Your world faded to black.

pt 2 coming soon..hehehe

@thewinchestah @catherine1206 @stygianoir @jellibean2018 @markster666 @strawberrypimp666 @3verlark @alastor-simp @alastorsaries @alastwhore666 @gojosaturos-wife @tojirights @polytheatrix @dennsfz @horrorartsworld @prosciuttosblog @yourdoorisunlocked @dievia3 @alastorsdarling @t0byisher3 @mneferta @purplecatsandhearts @alishii @okay-babe @danveration @absurd-ash @peachedtv @simphornies @fatnug @alastorsdear @alastwhore666 @stawberrypimpsimp @altruisticalastor @queenariesofnarnia @scaramoochiie @rradio-static @someonethatsnotimportantplshelp @squeekycheesecurd @squixythebee @catmunist @lbcreations-blog @coleisyn @bratty2bunny @v0xsw1fe @alstorloml @fizzled-phoenix @siiv3r @k1y0yo @yunimimii @wisteria-seal @kassa-stardust

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #jyoongim #alastor x y/n #alastor smut #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel smut

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technically-human · 2 months ago

Text

A gift for @i-am-as-normal-as-you-are

Often, when they commission me, I receive a list of prompts to choose from. I feel bad for the ones that I don't end up drawing, so here's one of them: a helluva crossover. Guess we could call it... Helluva detective agency lol

And here's some lore

Edwin is an Incubus from the Lust ring. However, he wants to be a detective, and is not very interested in the seducing people, even when it could help. Still, demons are often attracted to him, despite him not trying! The one he wants, though, doesn't seem all that interested...

Charles is an Imp from Wrath who ran away from home. Unlike many imps, he doesn't want to become an assassin, so he ends up acting as Edwin's bodyguard, even though the incubus can't really pay him... And turns out, he's not half bad at this whole detective thing himself!

Crystal is an Infestor demon from Envy. Her job is, of course, to mess with people's head... but someone messed with hers, instead. Without memories and not knowing how to use most of her powers, Crystal ends up being helped by the boys.

Niko is a demon from Sloth. She hasn't yet decided what she wants to do with her life. Maybe she could become a nurse? but while in the middle of some personal matters, she came into contact with a parasyte that stole her energy. Truly embarrassing for a Sloth demon!

#dbda #dead boy detectives #payneland #edwin x charles #helluva detective agency #sure we're going with that name #I haven't really discussed the lore with Haunted so all of this might change lol #but in the meantime: here they are!#I like to believe that edwin is a terrible incubus #but still weirdly attractive to the right kind of demon #so yeah ck and monty #also simon but he's probably the one who broke his horn while bullying him #so we don't talk about him #making these desings was pretty fun #not a style i usually draw in #poor edwin attracts all men except the imp he wants #universal constant tbh

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lipglossanon · 4 months ago

Text

What If We Could

Best friend!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

A little more savory tier commission from @porcelainseashore and dedicated to AliBelleRosetta ✨

Word Count: 2404 (I’m not surprised at this point lmao)

Warnings: MDNI, neighbor Leon, crushes, jealous reader, light flirting, smoking, light voyeurism, teasing, half naked reader

proofread ✍️

↺ ◁◁͏͏ ll ▷▷ ⋮≡

Stepping out the back door, your breath mists in front of your face. The warmth of late summer has segued easily into the coolness of fall. You tug the sleeves of your overly big sweatshirt—one you stole from Leon although you can’t recall when—to make sure they don’t fall too low past your wrists. Thinking of your best friend brings a warmth—a tiny ember burning in your chest—and a soft smile to your face.

Looking over at his house, you're thankful for the millionth time that you guys ended up being neighbors. Stepping out into your backyard, you pick your way through the leaf-strewn path that runs between your yard and Leon’s. Glancing over, you take in the old oak tree with its tired rope swing that sits in the middle of both properties.

It’s been years since it’s been used; musing to yourself, you think you must’ve been about eight years old when you quit playing on it. And the last time the swing was even used had to have been when you and Leon dared each other to swing as high as possible, then jump off. Wood smoke pervades your senses, and you breathe deep. It drags you from your reminiscing, focus shifting back to Leon’s house and, more importantly, to the open garage.

Your fingers nervously rub across the mixtape in the front pocket of your hooded sweatshirt. Leon’s never had a bad word to say about your mixes, even letting you demo a few live in front of your home setup, but it always sends a frisson of nerves through you when giving him one—especially one you’ve made specifically for him.

Poking your head around the corner, you take in your best friend while he doesn’t realize you’re there. He’s frowning down at the engine, a smear of grease already staining the apple of one cheek. His fringe hangs low over his face, head tilted forward as he works on his Jeep. That low burning ember in your chest sparks to life.

His blue eyes dart from part to part, mentally assessing his next move. His toolbox lies at his feet, lid flipped open and tools organized. Pushing off the side of the garage makes enough noise to draw his attention. A smile lights up his face when he realizes it’s you.

“Hey! Didn’t think you were gonna come over today,” he steps away from the hood, grabbing up an old oil rag to start cleaning his hands.

You shrug, “Didn’t feel like beatmatching today.”

You fiddle with the mixtape in your sweater before pulling it out. “Made you a new one.”

His eyes are soft when he walks over to pluck it from your hands. “Thanks. I think my last one is about worn out.”

He chuckles, and you grin a little bashfully. Throwing his arm over your shoulders, he guides you into the garage and over onto the ratty couch that’s been here forever. While you flop down onto the faded green cushions, springs groaning at the motion, Leon slips the new mixtape into his stereo. A heavy beat fills the speakers as he walks back over to join you on the couch.

“This one's yours?”

You nod, “I’ve got a few new tracks I’ve been messing around with.”

“Cool,” he relaxes into the cushions, head resting on the back. “Man, I’m tired.”

“Long night?”

“Kinda. Had to finish that paper for biology.”

Humming, you slip your shoes off and kick your feet up onto the couch. “I hate that class.”

He snorts, “Tell me about it.”

“Hey, Leon, I hate that class.”

He shakes his head at your sly smile, “Smartass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“What’re you? Five?”

You laugh, and he huffs a breath that you know is covering his own amusement. He pulls out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket, smacking the bottom with his palm before working the last one out and slipping it into his mouth.

“Hey,” you perk up, stretching your legs out to prod a sock-covered foot at Leon’s leg. “I thought you quit.”

“I did,” he mumbles, lips pinched around the cigarette filter, hands patting at his jean pockets as he feels for his lighter.

Making a little hum at the discovery, he tugs it out of his left pocket, flipping the hinge of the zippo to spark the flint until a little gold flame appears. Cupping his hand, he takes a pull off the butt, snapping the Zippo shut with a flick of his wrist before blowing smoke from his nose.

“C’mon, share,” you poke him again, and he clamps a hand around your ankle bone. Butterflies take flight in your sternum, insides fizzing like carbonated soda.

It’s not the first time Leon’s caused this feeling. It’s something you’ve been avoiding by looking at too closely.

“Say please,” he smirks at you, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.

You pout, and he runs his fingers underneath the hem of the leg of your jeans, calloused fingers brushing the skin. The fizzy excitement is back, bubbling in your sternum.

“Please, Leon,” you murmur.

His eyes shift, the blue now a shade darker, while he plucks the cigarette from his lips. “See? How hard was that?”

Leaning forward, you take the filtered end and pull a drag off the lit cig. You both fall into a charged silence—not only sharing smoke, but a secondhand kiss with each pass of the filter between you two. Every now and again, Leon ashes the cigarette onto an old glass tray sitting on the floor.

He keeps his hand loosely wrapped around your ankle the entire time, fingers mindlessly tracing across your skin. Feeling a little bold, you slip your other foot into his lap, and he hums. Giddiness at the action makes you a little lightheaded.

He offers the butt to you. “Last one?”

You shake your head, “All yours.”

He takes one last drag of what’s left of the cigarette, then stubs it out in the ashtray. He lounges back on the couch, running his free hand through his hair.

“Actually.. what time is it?” He rolls his head to look over at you.

Squinting up at the silly cat clock on the wall, you read out the time. “You got a plane to catch?”

He rolls his eyes with a smile and gently pushes your feet off his lap. “No, I got a date with Heidi, said I’d pick her up at about six or so.”

Jealousy rears its green-eyed gaze and lasers you in its sights. The bubbly feeling from earlier sours, leaving confusion in its wake.

“Oh.” The word slips from your lips quietly, softly. You thought they had broken up? Squishing down that nagging voice in your head, you clear your throat. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He stands up and holds his hand out to help you off the couch.

“Of course, we’ve got history together.” You clasp his hand and let him pull you alongside him. “Don’t stay out too late.”

He chuckles and nudges you with his elbow, “No promises.”

Pretending that doesn't slice into your heart as well as buoys the jealousy sitting like a stone in your chest, you nod and step around him. As you head for the opening of the garage, his fingers tangle with yours and tug you to a stop.

“Hey,” his voice is low and honeywarm when you turn to look at him. “Thanks for the music.”

He squeezes your hand gently, blue eyes searching your face. You can’t help but smile at him, squeezing his hand back.

“You’re welcome, Leon.”

He grins, boyish and happy, then drops your hand to grab up his lighter and empty pack of cigarettes to stash them back in his pocket.

“Later!” He calls out, and you watch him head into his house through the kitchen door.

Cradling your hand to your chest, you walk back to your house, deep in thought with your tangled feelings.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Leon pulls into his driveway before the clock even strikes ten. He sits behind the steering wheel, eyes unseeing as he looks out the windshield. The date went off without a hitch; Heidi and he got along perfectly. But he couldn’t stop thinking back to you this afternoon. How you looked with a haze of smoke in the air, eyes glittering at him from across the couch.

You brought him another of your mixtapes, so shy and sweet—it’s cute, but he’s too chicken to ever tell you that. His heart lurched in his chest at seeing your face fall when he admitted why he had to leave early; it was telling in that you didn’t even realize you had done it.

Climbing out of his Jeep, he digs out his new pack of cigarettes and decides to light one up before going inside. With his thoughts still on you, his feet take him around the side of the garage to the oak tree straddling the invisible line between your yards. He leans against the trunk, eyes flicking up to your bedroom window and almost choking on the smoke he blows out from his mouth on a sudden exhalation.

The soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand bathes your room in a golden hue, fitting for the warmth mounting in Leon’s body. His eyes can’t stop taking you in, clad only in a loose shirt and sweats. He steps closer out from under the shadow of the tree to take a better look. You’re moving around your room, headphones over your ears, lost in your own little world.

Coming to a stop, Leon takes a long drag from his cigarette, slowly blowing out the smoke while he watches you dance around your room. You slip your sweats down and off, now only in your shirt and plain cotton panties. His heart pumps harder, pulse jumping in his neck. Leon knows he shouldn’t be peeping on you like this—knows he should turn around and go back home so you won’t think he’s some kinda pervert, but the temptation of you is too tantalizing.

You bend forward to drop something onto your nightstand and glance up, locking eyes with him. Leon doesn’t move except to pull the filter away from his mouth to breathe out a smoke ring. You slowly stand tall, body language cautious. He’s close enough he can see you bite your lip, seeming to make up your mind as you tug on the bottom of your shirt.

He can’t stop the low groan from slipping from his lips; thankfully no one is around, when you slowly bring your shirt over your head and drop it into the floor. You stand there, like a vision, in just panties and a bra. He brings the cigarette back up to his lips to take a long drag. You tease your fingers underneath your bra straps, slipping them down one at a time. Leon’s heart is in his throat, eyes never leaving yours as you reach behind your back and undo the clasps.

Once you bring your arms forward to let your bra fall away from your body, his eyes drop to greedily take in your bare breasts. Arousal pools in his gut while he stares at your soft peaks, your nipples hardening under his gaze. Cupping your breasts in your hands, you rub your thumbs over the tight buds, making him groan and run a shaky hand through his hair.

He drops the cig and stubs it out under his boot. Running his other hand down his thigh, he cups himself through his jeans, groaning at the pressure on his chubbed cock. He watches you bite your lip again, eyes fluttering when you lightly run your fingers around your areola before grazing your nipples. His palm presses harder onto his bulge, hips jumping at the dull pleasure.

You smile at him, secretive and coquettish, bending forward again to pick up the shirt you dropped earlier. Leon bites back the disappointed groan when you pull your shirt back on, blowing him a saucy kiss before closing the curtains on your window.

Leon shakes his head, arousal making his thoughts feel thick and slow. In a daze, he makes his way back over to his house and up to his own room. Deciding to take a cold shower before falling into bed, Leon knows that a line may have been crossed, and he’s not sure that he really cares.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Apparently it’s something neither of you are going to bring up. You were already seated in your usual spot when Leon came rushing in, minutes from the lecture starting. He shoots you his usual smile and a quick hello before pulling out his laptop and textbook. You frown at him, a quizzical pull of your brows, and he just winks.

Shrugging a little, you turn back to the front of the class just as the teacher walks in, closing the door behind them. It’s silent between you two while the history lecture takes place. Once the lesson drags to a close, you wait for Leon to finish packing away his things.

“You wanna grab an early lunch? I slept through my alarm and missed breakfast,” he grouses, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand.

“Sure. Anywhere specific?” You fall into step with him as you leave the classroom, skin feeling warm when your arms brush.

“Where’s that place that you found last week?” He pushes the door open, letting you exit the building first.

“Oh, it’s just around the corner. They’ve got a decent selection, sandwiches, wraps, and the like,” you purse your lips in thought, and Leon slips his arm over your shoulders.

Butterflies swarm your stomach, and you give him a side eye. It’s not unusual for Leon to do it, but after last night, you’re unsure of where you stand with him.

“Sounds good to me,” he yawns. “Damn, I gotta start heading to bed earlier.”

Neither of you say anything about why he was up late, and by the end of the day, it’s like some weird shared dream that you may have had—distant, yet the feeling remains.

And except for the times when you catch him staring, it’s business as usual, so everything’s fine between you two… right?

#kofi commission #kofi #fic request #commissions #fic commissions #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #best friend!leon s kennedy #best friend!leon s kennedy x fem!reader #fem!reader

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minkieater · 4 months ago

Text

spiderhead → yj

tattoo artist!yeonjun x fem!reader

smut mdni, cheating, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship wc. ~6k

the buzz from tattoo guns spread across the room as if there were a swarm of bees — the shop was busy today. yeonjun’s mouth tasted of tobacco and menthol, his favorite combination, his index and middle fingers stained with the scent from years of use. he rain a hand through his hair, feeling the ends tickle his neck, before burying both hands in the soft, fleece lined pocket of his hoodie.

he made his way over to his station, checking his tools, cleaning up the area so he could prepare for his next client. the steps whirled in his head as they always did when he fixed his area: wash his hands, put gloves on, sterilize his tools, cover his equipment, disinfect all surfaces. he loved this part, the organization, having everything accessible to make his art easier to complete.

god, yeonjun loved his fucking job. just the plain idea of him drawing and coloring on people’s bodies, having his art stay there forever, it was magical to him. yeonjun knew in high school that he wanted to be a tattoo artist — he bought a shitty tattoo gun online, spent his weekends drunk in beomgyu’s basement leaving wonky doodles on his friends in places no one would ever see. at parties, people would beg him to whip out the tattoo gun, implore him to etch small designs on their skin on the big leather couch in soobin’s parents’ house.

those nights turned into lonely ones spent in his bedroom, cross hatching lines into fake skin on his desk, shading with pointillism in designs he’d seen on pinterest, smoke from his lit joint dancing into the air of his bedroom. he had a year long apprenticeship at a tattoo shop in the middle of brooklyn when he turned nineteen, he tried college for a year when he graduated high school but quickly realized it just wasn’t for him. now, four years later, he was thriving: he was booked, he was busy, he was a real fucking tattoo artist and made real fucking money.

he grabbed his phone to check the time before he started disinfecting, only five more minutes before his client was supposed to show. he scrolled his lock screen, eyes thinning when he read the notifications.

v: did u turn the lights off before u left v: if my electric bill is high again just know you’re paying that shit

his lips pulled into a line, thumbs moving a mile a minute.

yj: yes i turned them off yj: u dont have to remind me every single day

he locked his phone and set it face down on the counter that ran along the back of the shop, packed cabinets filled with saran wrap, disinfectant and ink caps underneath. he shook his head, irritation flooding his thoughts, he’d left the lights on one time and now he’ll never hear the end of it.

well over a year now, together but still not quite official — on and off but pretty much living together, yeonjun has spent more time in your bushwick apartment than he has at his own downtown. granted the shop was closer to your apartment than his own, but he’s always liked your apartment more, anyway. tall ceilings, funky art, maps and concert posters on the walls, a unique touch to your living space with your red lacquered kitchen cabinets and dark wood accents where his own looked cheesy and cheap in comparison.

two bedrooms, one full bathroom and a separate room just for the television and couch, yeonjun thought you were fucking loaded when he first stepped foot in your apartment. it had to be your parents paying your bills, or maybe you were a nepo baby – this is new york, after all – but as your relationship grew and he learned more about your occupation, how much you truly made between high commission and tips, he’d never thought a hairstylist could make so much fucking money.

both of you in your careers, working full time with the public, both creative people that spend their days creating art that lives on people’s bodies. your canvases were humans, walking, breathing pieces of scrap paper that you drew on, painted on, poked, cut, shaded. the two of you related to one another too much in too many areas, on too many levels, so many conversations about people and their critiques, their wishes, their families, their stories. if you and yeonjun could do anything, it was talk.

you’d met on your twenty first birthday, a little over a month after yeonjun’s twenty second. you and your girl friends and coworkers he later learned circled up on the dance floor with you in the middle, rolling your hips to the beat of the song, head tipped back in a drunken haze and a cocktail in your hand. he eyed you from the bar, thinking nothing of it other than the fact that you were a drunk twenty one year old about to be obnoxiously loud in his ear all night. he sipped his glass of whiskey, neat, tattooed fingers wrapping around the glass that dripped sweat onto his palm.

the bar was hot, too hot for the outfit he had on — oversized black hoodie with the hood over his head, black pants, boots on his feet. he was dressed for early november in new york, layered to fight off the chill of brooklyn, not for whatever the hell was going on in his favorite bar.

you approached him first, slurring over your words, tucking your hair behind your ear which was already tucked. you batted your eyelashes, your eyes glossed over in intoxication — yeonjun was not biting, he wasn’t interested in the slightest. he gave you a tight lipped smile, clinked his glass with your own and turned his attention away from you, a small gesture to say what you’re looking for is not me, keep it moving.

but when you strolled into his shop two weeks later as a walk-in and yeonjun had a cancellation, only then was he taking the bait, the bait you had no idea you were dangling from a hook right in front of his own two eyes. you didn’t seem to recall your interaction on your birthday, you didn’t seem to recognize yeonjun at all and that only made him curious.

you asked for a ruler along your index finger, two lines to show the public what two inches really is. he laughed at that, a small puff of amusement leaving his perfect plump lips just as the words left yours.

“is that stupid?” you asked, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed in question but your eyes wide and he swore he could see them shine as you looked up to him. he was taken then, from just that one look in your eyes – he knew he was in trouble.

“not at all,” he said as she shook his head, smile still dancing on his cheeks, “it’s funny, i’ll take you back.”

you sat down on the bench, yeonjun went searching for a ruler in the cabinets lining the back of the shop. you spoke mindlessly about your job as he searched, immediately telling him a story about a client you had a few days ago who wanted a balayage and not highlights but they couldn’t decipher between the two — they insisted on highlights when what they were describing was clearly a balayage. you spoke with such enthusiasm, your mouth running a mile a minute, words spilling from your lips just as fast as you thought them.

yeonjun had no idea what you were talking about but he knew you were adorable — much different from when you first tried to pick him up at that bar. your eyes are bright, words controlled, movements sharp and alert. what did stay the same was the confidence, your outward extrovertedness made it so yeonjun didn’t have to say much, just nodding and listening to your little story as he tried his best to keep his head on straight.

“finger tattoos don’t last as long as they do on other parts of the body,” he interrupted as your story ended, finally pulling a small red plastic ruler from the cabinet to his left.

you shrug, “i figured as much, my hands are in water a lot, too.”

yeonjun sucked a breath in through his teeth, “that makes it even worse.”

“so what, i have to come back and get it touched up, then? big deal,” your hands came up at your sides, shrugging altogether, “as long as you still work here when i have to get it touched up then it’s fine.”

“already commending my work when i haven’t even done the tattoo yet?” yeonjun wears a lazy, teasing smile as he sits down on his stool, grabbing the arm rest for you to lay your forearm on.

“who said i was talking about the tattoo?” yeonjun’s eyes shot up at you who was already wearing a smirk, his lips parted ever so slightly. he immediately cracked a smile, shaking his head as he looked back down to your hand.

“that’s crazy,” he mumbled under his breath as he put the ruler up to your finger, then grabbed his pen from his tray to mark the inches. maybe you did know — maybe you were purposely dangling the bait, or maybe the two of you just had the same amount of interest in each other. maybe there was no bait to begin with.

“i don’t think it's crazy,” he didn’t expect you to hear him or respond, but it seems you don’t have a filter of any kind as you keep going, “you’re hot, i’m hot, we have a lot in common already.”

“we have a lot in common?” he raised an eyebrow, looking up to you again after marking the second inch, he grabbed a different pen to mark the eighths.

“we’re both creative, both work with the public, we have picky people as clients, have to listen to unrealistic expectations, both work in careers that aren’t super common — not common, maybe abnormal? or maybe i’m trying to say we can be abnormal because our careers aren’t super judgemental? appearance wise, i guess, whatever, anyways, we also both know how to talk to people, i can keep going…”

“so all we have in common are our careers?” he’s still playing along as he finishes marking out the lines, “how does that look?”

“looks good to me,” you say after a quick glance, barely an inspection of your finger, “pretty much, but our careers teach us a lot about ourselves. oh! and we can do art trades, i’ll do your hair and you give me tattoos.”

“are you bribing me or pimping yourself out?” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the smile that paints itself on your face feigns innocence, he’d save that look for his sketchbook later tonight.

“maybe a little bit of both. are either of them working?” you cocked your head to the side again, swinging the feet that hung from the bench ever so slightly, careful not to kick anything in front of you. yeonjun had to reel himself in.

yeonjun had to be honest — with himself, and you — it started working the moment you stepped into the shop. you had no visible tattoos, a casual outfit on, sweatpants and a tee shirt that left just a sliver of skin between the hems of your clothes. your hair was done but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, you didn’t seem like anything special off first glance– in fact, you seemed the exact opposite of his type, the girls he usually went for. yeonjun was just as confused with himself as he was enamored by you.

“i don’t know, i think you might have to try a lil’ harder,” he faked a deciding face, eyebrows scrunched as he moved back in his stool, ushering for you to stand up. he looked at your finger from all angles, analyzing it as you stood to the side, lifting your hands, flexing your fingers as you stood. he was happy with his sketch, his outline, he was more then prepared to freehand a couple lines.

“you should let me try harder over some drinks if the tattoo comes out good,” your eyes were trained on your hand as you followed his instructions, moving your hands into every position he asked for.

yeonjun laughed at that, “if the tattoo comes out good? what, am i the one picking you up now?”

you shrugged as he ushered you to sit back down, “you might be, i’m trying to find out.”

he nodded with his lips pursed, folded into a frown that wasn’t exuding any sort of negative reaction, more impressed than anything. “fair game.”

your tattoo came out flawless, the lines he free handed onto your finger came out straight, perfect in thickness. as easy as it seemed, you knew the talent it took, the patience and a steady hand needed for such precision. after you paid, tipping him generously, your flirting returned with vengeance.

“i think we hit it off if i’m being honest,” you smiled, showing all of your teeth to the black haired man behind the counter, “do you have anyone else after me?”

he shook his head, “you’re my last, i had a cancellation.”

“oh my god– do you believe in fate? yeonjun, i think that’s what this is, i’m being so serious,” your eyes were wide, eyebrows shot up, smile wide. excitement bled from you, your veins, you were nothing but honest. so shameless, not a thought in your pretty little head that he’d reject you – he wasn’t sure if you’d care if he did.

he laughed, something he seemed to do too much during your entire service, his head hanging low in front of him before he picked it back up, looking at you who was already staring expectantly at him. “i don’t, but maybe if we go get drinks you can change my mind.”

you raised your fists, “i’ve won.”

the bar was halfway to your apartment, almost smack ass between the tattoo shop and your place. you’d been there before with your girlfriends, once or twice since your birthday – you could finally join in on the fun. yeonjun was dressed in all black, you’d soon come to find out he was always dressed in all black, and he never looked like he got enough sleep. you seemed so bright next to him, with your hair and your clothes and the plush keychains attached to your purse. you looked like total opposites, when you knew you had much more in common than what meets the eye.

that one night bled into the next year of your lives – something he was not expecting after your first interaction. it’s not like he’s never had a client try to bag him before, but something about you was different, it drove him insane that he couldn’t put a finger on it. he was used to playing games, always the winner, never the loser. he was used to confusion, being stuck in the inbetween, the gray area that sometimes came with relationships, or lack thereof. with you it was so straight forward, a slippery slope, not a hole he dug himself into but instead a well, one full of water, full of life. he never wanted to stop drinking from it, gulp after gulp, chugging until he was so full he thought he might spill over.

the spilling didn’t come until six and a half months in. your first two months were every man’s wet dream – he had every inch of you, every fistful of perpetually iron-curled hair, every corner of plush skin burned to memory – on every surface of your apartment and his.

in yeonjun’s past relationships, he never seemed to be the problem. if anything, he was the victim.

small fights to massive blown out arguments over petty shit, staying out too late with his coworkers at his favorite bar to beomgyu stealing him for a night out clubbing, missed texts and phone calls to going MIA for three days. yeonjun never seemed to understand what the issue was – petty arguments were never his thing, he’d rather stay silent than give into whatever the fuck his current plaything was yelling about this time. so what if he stayed out too late with his coworkers? he still came home. there’s no harm in a night out clubbing with his boys, she didn’t even know about the girl that was grinding against his dick all night, or the other one that had her lipstick smeared across his lips in the corner of the dark club. he went MIA for three days because his phone was dead, not because he had her number blocked. it was ridiculous, really, the things women would try and pin on him – yeonjun never seemed to think he was the issue at all.

the thought never crossed yeonjun’s brain that these behaviors were learned, or that he could teach them to anyone else. he never thought that his pretty, bright eyed new girlfriend would turn into a different version of himself – if she did, he’d be grateful, he thought himself pretty fucking cool – yeonjun never thought any of his behaviors were bad, but when yeonjun got a taste of his own medicine he knew he met his match.

he showed up at your apartment past midnight, drunk off his ass, clothes oozing whiskey, weed and burberry her. he let himself in with his key, the one you gave him after three months in, the one you told him to use whenever he wanted. he called out your name, searching from room to room, but you were nowhere to be found. he’d never shown up to an empty apartment, there’s never been a lack of you, cuddled up in a fuzzy robe, either under your duvet or sitting on the couch watching reruns of your favorite drama. yeonjun was confused, his dazed head couldn’t think up a proper reason for your absence, he decided to do what he absolutely fucking hated to be done to him.

he called you about thirty six times, texted you about forty two times. he also left four voicemails, not one of them nice.

he sat there on your couch – after a much needed shower, a bottle of water and a change of clothes you kept for him in your bottom drawer, he sobered up real quick. he felt more level headed, but he couldn’t ignore the anger that began to grow, a pit that sat heavy in his stomach: where the fuck were you? who were you with?

you damn near fell into the room an hour later, keys falling to the floor after you ripped them out of the door. you giggled to yourself, your heels in your hands, fingers curled into the heel of your black pumps. the strapless, sparkly scrap of fabric he could barely call a dress was crooked, your hair that was always purposely styled to perfection was a mess, your red lipstick was smudged down your chin. yeonjun’s seen this scene before, he’s done it, he’s lived it.

“who fucked you?” were the first words that left his mouth as he stood in the living room, oversized black clothes hanging off his frame like hade’s robes. the breath that left his nostrils was hot, burning his cupid’s bow, his jaw locked with his usually plump lips scrunched to a thin line.

you laughed – you fucking laughed. “you’re a fucking psychopath, junie. i just came back from a night with the girls!”

yeonjun was not buying it – he stepped closer. the stench of alcohol was masked by dior sauvage, a smell he knew too well, a smell that drifted past him as you nearly pushed him out of your way. yeonjun was dumbfounded and raging, his eyebrows furrowed together, his hands held out in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them.

his girl, his only girl – well, other than the girl he made out with earlier – he couldn’t fathom the thought of someone else’s hands on you, being so close to you that you came home smelling like him. he followed you to the bathroom.

you were already stripped down bare – no bra and no panties to be seen on the pile on the floor with that thin scrap of fabric, yeonjun couldn’t collect his thoughts fast enough, his rage was creeping up his spine, sitting in his stomach like food poisoning, threatening to come out whether he wanted it to or not.

“you’re lying,” was all he could get out as you brushed through your hair, putting it in a tight knot atop your head, a small smile still sitting on your cheeks. he didn’t sound angry enough, his voice wasn’t stable, his feelings weren’t enough to give his voice ground to stand on.

“no i’m not,” you said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like your words were the honest to god truth. you turned to him, your best innocent look paired with that award winning smile, “wanna shower with me? or did you already when you came home from the club?”

yeonjun had a full body reaction, his eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunched up in disbelief and shock, for just a moment there he thought he might be insane. did he make that up? was the dior he smelled just remnants from being with beomgyu earlier? no, no he showered, that was all you. he was not insane. he stepped closer.

the smell of a shower he’d taken just an hour ago filled the room, the body wash that you always used was the only scent he could decipher. he took a breath, “you fucked someone.”

“i think you might still be drunk, baby,” you wore a fake pout, raising your right hand to run your thumb across his bottom lip, “happy anniversary, by the way. six months!”

that was the start of everything – his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend was buried somewhere, six feet deep in wet soil, replaced with something akin to a fucking monster. when yeonjun first met you, you had told him you had so much in common, yeonjun didn’t believe it, didn’t see it. he thought the two of you were polar fucking opposites, yet he liked you anyway, liked that you introduced him to a new type of relationship. while yeonjun spent six months subconsciously teaching you his own behaviors, you spent the time purposely teaching him quite a few of your own.

goodmorning texts to goodnight texts to facetime – yeonjun never did any of that shit before. yeonjun has never bought a single person a bouquet of flowers in his entire life. yet here you stood, his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend, in the middle of your salon surrounded by a herd of your coworkers with a bouquet signed ‘your junie <3 love you baby!’

his friends called him whipped, a simp, a cuck, every name in the fucking book because yeonjun adored you, and it was painfully obvious. you’d come to beomgyu’s garage, parading around in a mini skirt and your tiny little purse that yeonjun was sure only had lip gloss inside, getting him beers from the fridge and cracking them open, handing them to him with a smile and sitting straight on your throne: his lap. his friends adored you too, they couldn’t figure out what you saw in yeonjun – with his dark clothes, heavy tattoos that covered his body, bags under his eyes, black hair and too much metal through holes in his face. his friends were constantly flirting with you, getting you whatever you needed, they were the ones cracking beers and serving them to you, yet you were doing it for yeonjun.

yeonjun was filled with pride, he loved it. a trophy they could look at but never touch. he’d never had this type of relationship before, someone so obsessed with him, someone willing to wait on him hand and foot, he slipped deeper and deeper into an emotion he’d never experienced before without even realizing it.

the day he did realize it, that was when the true fun began, because while he was unconsciously slipping, swimming deeper into that well, you stood at the top, holding the rope, pulling bucket by bucket out of the well with that award winning, innocent smile etched into your skin.

you weren’t kidding when you said you’d do art trades, even his coworkers knew your face by now, taehyun two stations down always offered his services when you sat down on yeonjun’s bench. you giggled and flipped your hair, saying why would i do that when my boyfriend’s a better artist than you?

god, yeonjun loved to hear those words leave your lips. it was a bit the two of you did, taehyun acted as if he was shot through the heart, a poisoned arrow slipping straight through his skin, and yeonjun could hear the sweet melody of your giggle through the shop. yeonjun has filled up one of your arms by now and half of the other– a garden, flowers, bees, butterflies, tattoos that were so undoubtedly you he couldn’t even make fun of you for them. he wouldn’t expect you to have anything else.

his favorite, though, was the YJ right above your hip. it was in yeonjun’s own handwriting, a doodle he marked on your skin for life, late at night after too many drinks – it was like he was in high school again. that was four months in.

that night, yeonjun felt the closest thing to his entire world caving in on him – he needed to go. he stared at the scribble on your hip while his face was buried between your thighs, you were writhing above him, hands buried in his hair, you always looked so fucking gorgeous like that. instead of being focused on you, determined to push you over the edge like usual, yeonjun’s head was clouded – hazy. he wondered how a person he’d met by chance just a few months ago could become so important, so detrimental to his life, he feared he would be a shell of himself if you ever chose to leave him.

it terrified him. he’d never felt this way about anyone before.

before that night, your relationship was golden – yeonjun was something out of a dream, a hero, the prince in your story, you were convinced you’d spend your life with him. he was honest, he was smart, he told you everything that he had wrapped up in his complex, dark brain, and you accepted every word that came from his mouth, every thought that popped into his head.

when he left that night, hours after shoving a twelve gauge needle in your skin with ink the color of his hair, you didn’t stress. you woke with a panic, of course, where the hell did your boyfriend go? but after twelve hours of no response, a trip to his shop, a night spent in his favorite bar, hours bent over your ikea bed frame, you knew what this was. you recognized this fear, you saw straight through him, yeonjun wasn’t as masked as he thought himself out to be. you’d shared too much, you knew too much about one another for yeonjun to be anything but transparent.

you paid attention. late nights, coming home smelling like another woman’s perfume, earrings that fell from his pocket when you did laundry, long and short pink and blonde and brown pieces of hair found around every inch of your apartment – you looked at the tattoo that sat above your hip, you knew there was no one else for you in the world. if yeonjun wanted to play the game, you’d play it too, you’d play it better.

the first three or four or twenty two times you did it – yeonjun didn’t notice. you even sent him home in one of yeonjun’s tees, one of his favorites, one that you successfully convinced yeonjun he left at his own apartment. when he couldn’t find it there, it wasn’t your issue anymore – with half of your wardrobe in two different places, you’re bound to lose a shirt or two.

it was only when you got sloppy, when you wanted him to notice, that he did. two months in, six and a half months after your relationship began, he’d caught you and you were so fucking close to convincing him that he didn’t.

“we’re fucking done,” he was seething as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush beige towel around your torso, no effort needed to keep yourself calm.

“why’s that?” you continued to feign innocence, stepping in front of the mirror to start applying your skincare, not even glancing at the man who stood next to you, his hands balled into fists.

“i know you fucked someone tonight,” his voice was stern, it was hideous on him. you loved the cool, calm yeonjun better – you loved your yeonjun, the one you spent endless nights with, looking through his sketchbook, where he showed you all of his doodles, his drawings, when he let himself be the most vulnerable. “there’s no use in denying it, v.”

“and what have you been doing for the past two months, yeonjun?” your head snapped to look at him, your voice matching his, cadence slipping into something more harsh, laying yourself bare for him. you supposed your time was up. his mouth opened and closed.

“great,” his head dropped, low, sarcastic laughter slipping from his lips, “you fuck someone and blame it on me? project your cheating onto me?”

“there’s no use denying it, jun. have you talked to beomgyu? maybe you should ask him what he did after he dropped you off.”

you physically watched his face turn red – ears hot, crimson bubbling up from his chest to his throat to his face – you had to stop yourself from smiling. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and you slept like a baby. freshly fucked, coming down from a solid drunk, you felt brand new.

it was a week before you saw him again – honestly, you were shocked it took that long. that gorgeous, long black hair that curled around his ears, peeked from the hem of his hoodie, you longed to touch it, feel it between your fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept since the last time he saw you, his bags sat heavy, dark, in your entryway, key in hand. you wanted to take care of him, wanted him to get a good night’s rest – next to you.

you sat on your couch, not a muscle to be moved in his direction, the two of you just stared at each other from across the room. moments went by, you’re sure maybe a full minute, then he was pacing towards you.

“hello?” you asked in disbelief and concern before he was pulling you up by your wrists, smashing his lips against yours. his lips tasted of whiskey, neat, cigarette smoke, menthol. you thought maybe you were addicted to tobacco too from the way his mouth felt euphoric against yours, an old friend you’d missed. it’s only been a week but it could’ve been a year for all you knew.

“you’re mine, you know that?” he’d asked between kisses, his mouth swallowing yours, his tongue stealing the words you couldn’t begin to think let alone speak. instead you nodded into his lips, fingers tangling in his hair, body forcing itself into his, you missed him. you missed his smell, his touch, the feeling of him against you, you missed everything. you never wanted to part from him again.

he had you split open on the couch as he knelt on the floor, head between your thighs again, eyes trained on the YJ that sat on your hip. he hadn’t seen it in a week, his brand on you, his initials that were inked into your skin for the rest of your life – he missed being between your legs, missed tasting you, missed taking everything you had to fucking offer. he missed you, his other half, the monster he created, his comfort, his home.

yeonjun would be lying if he said he was willing to part ways with you, but he’d also be lying if he said he was willing to acknowledge to the full extent of what he felt for you. yeonjun felt betrayed, played, messed with, like you snuck into his brain and plucked every single thought out of his head and fucking warped it. god, he loved you. he was so scared.

he told you as he barreled into you, fucking you like he hated you, whispering those words in a choked breath over and over into the shell of your ear. he couldn’t believe he was admitting it, couldn’t believe he was saying those three little words – you’re different, you’re everything. he loved you.

the months to follow were dancing right on the edge, together, but not quite. apart, but were you ever really apart? every night, wrapped in your sheets or his sheets – always someone’s sheets, always together. you never discussed sleeping with beomgyu, yeonjun never brought it up again, he looked back at that moment in his head and all he saw was weakness, a time where he let you slip away – let you get away from him. you never spoke of it, but it was always there, between the two of you like a wall.

that wall that stood between you was tall and rock solid, unlike the glass doors to yeonjun’s head, yeonjun’s thoughts, that wall of his was unbreakable – even when he came home smelling like burberry her again no argument in the world could pry that night out of him again.

you knew better this time than to try with beomgyu again, he hadn’t reached out since the night yeonjun left your apartment, you knew better than to try with anyone. instead of fighting fire with fire, you got distant, you spoke less, you asked less, you tried less. you became the ghost of his pretty, bright eyed girlfriend, one that had been to hell and back, one that learned from her mistakes. you became a reflection of yeonjun.

yeonjun checked his phone after his client, only two hours had gone by, surprisingly enough. it was a solid first session for his client’s leg sleeve, but his bones were aching, his eyes sore from being focused for so long.

v: you left the fucking lights on

#choi yeonjun #yeonjun x y/n #yeonjun x you #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun #tomorrow x together #txt smut #txt x you #txt x reader #txt fanfic #txt #i have a crush on choi yeonjun

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captainmalewriter · 8 months ago

Text

Superstar

Commission Story

“Dude check out my sweet pump! I swear to God I’m getting bigger!”

Xavier was checking himself out in the mirror while his best friend Carlos sketched something on a legal pad on the nearby living room couch. Carlos stopped drawing for a brief second and looked over at Xavier with lazy eyes.

“Yeah man, you’re getting real massive now,” Carlos lied. Xavier’s bicep looked exactly the same as the last time he checked. “Maybe I’ll ask you to spot me the next time I go for a PR.”

“Alright alright, cut the crap,” Xavier rolled his sleeves back down. “I can do without the teasing, thanks.”

“No I’m serious, X! You’re starting to look like me! C’mon, let’s compare sizes real quick.”

Carlos hopped off the couch and joined Xavier before the full-body mirror. He then took off his shirt in one smooth motion and flexed his muscular torso.

Having been in various sports throughout his life, Carlos boasted an impressive physique. He had strong, broad shoulders and absolute cannons for arms. Carlos took up most of the mirror space when he posed, which forced Xavier to step to the side. Having seen the same body repeatedly throughout the years, Xavier was no longer impressed by his friend’s athletic build.

“Nah, you’re still pretty small.”

Xavier poked Carlos at his side, where he knew he was most ticklish. Carlos jabbed Xavier in retaliation. Xavier returned the hit in kind. They would then continue exchanging blow for blow, hitting each other’s ticklish spots until one of them eventually called uncle. This was a game they frequently played ever since they first became friends.

Carlos and Xavier had first met in middle school when they sat next to each other in art class. They formed a homework pact soon after first meeting each other. Xavier helped Carlos with his science homework, while Carlos helped Xavier with his drawing assignments. Their mutual agreement led to them becoming best friends. On the outside, they looked like a stereotypical duo that would typically be at odds— Xavier being the scrawny, gay nerd while Carlos was the conventionally handsome, popular athlete, but anyone who knew either of them knew they had a lot of love for each other. Nowadays, even though they attended different colleges, they would still make time to hang out with each other often. Theirs was a friendship that survived the test of time.

“Alright alright, enough!! You win!” Xavier called out. They were both out of breath and red in the face after roughhousing, but that didn’t stop them from sharing a laugh and a bro hug.

Their loud, combined laughter stopped them from noticing when Carlos’ father, Enrique, arrived home from work. Enrique looked at them with a scowl plastered on his face. Xavier and Carlos both immediately stopped laughing when they noticed him. Carlos felt a cool breeze on his exposed skin, then hurried to put on his shirt, remembering he was shirtless.

“Dad!” Carlos said while slipping his shirt back on. “You’re home early—”

“What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be at summer practice already?”

“Not yet I don’t, practice doesn’t even start for another two hours!”

“What kind of loser talk is that?” Enrique crossed his arms and shook his head in disappointment. “How do you expect to stay ahead of everyone else if you’re not out on the field putting in the extra hours?”

“I’m fine, Dad, I don’t need extra practice hours.”

“Psh, that’s how it always starts. First, you stop going to practice early. Next, you stop going at all. Then, you start getting less and less playing time because you’re not playing as good as you once were. You’re going to lose your scholarship, Carlitos, is that what you want!?”

Xavier noticed Carlos’ eyebrows beginning to furrow and stepped in before he could respond.

“Hey, let’s just get going. Don’t wanna catch the midday traffic after all.”

Xavier helped himself out while Carlos lagged behind. Carlos gave his father one last cold stare, then began walking out. Enrique stepped towards him as he did so.

“And I want you to stop hanging out around that queer. He’s going to make you weak.”

Carlos stopped once he heard what his father whispered into his ear. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. He wanted to retaliate but couldn’t find the words to do so. All he could do was listen to his father’s dress shoes echoing down the hallway as he left. Carlos cleared his throat and went for his car, where Xavier was already waiting in the passenger seat.

The car ride to Carlos’ college, where summer practice was being held, started off silent and tense. Xavier looked over to his buddy as he drove them down the freeway. He knew Carlos wasn’t the type to show his emotions often, but he knew the dilemma over rugby and his father was eating him alive inside.

“Hey… Sorry about your Dad. He sucks.”

“Hmph, don’t be. You know he’s always been like that, I’m used to it,” Carlos responded.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you have to keep putting up with it. You need to tell him that you wanna pursue art.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“Why not?”

“Dude, c’mon, you know my Dad doesn’t give a fuck about my art. He just wants me to focus on rugby so I can keep my scholarship.”

“Well, can’t you just switch your program of study? He doesn’t have to know!” Xavier teased. Carlos didn’t laugh.

“Can’t. The school won’t allow it. Student athletes can only be in certain programs and art isn’t one of them.”

Xavier wanted to offer a rebuttal but couldn’t think of anything they hadn’t already considered. He stayed quiet and shrunk into the leather cushion of the passenger seat.

“You know, maybe my Dad’s right,” Carlos started. “There are worse things in life than being forced to play rugby. Besides, imagine all the money I’ll earn once I go pro. Maybe sticking with sports is the right call.”

“Dude, what about your art? Art can make you money too! I’ve seen your drawings and paintings, you’ve got talent! You can make it big, even bigger than with rugby!”

“You don’t know that,” Carlos sighed heavily as he stopped at a red light coming off the freeway. “I’m not saying I’ll stop drawing completely, but maybe that shouldn’t be the focus of my life right now. I need to stay in perfect shape if I wanna go pro with rugby.” Carlos turned his head to Xavier and held eye contact with him. His gaze softened.

“I appreciate you looking out for me, X, but I really don’t think art is in the cards for me. It’s gonna take a miracle to change my Dad’s mind, and I just don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

Xavier stayed quiet but gave an affirming nod, then looked away. As they pulled into campus, he pointed to the library.

“Drop me off there, I wanna check out some books,” Xavier said. Carlos did as requested.

“You’ve been hanging out at the library a lot lately. You’re not even a student here, what are you doing there?”

“Your school’s got an interesting collection on the history of alchemy, so I’ve been reading it. Nothing special, really.”

Xavier lied. For the past few months, Xavier hadn’t been studying the history of alchemy but rather how to practice alchemy. While he had started his research with a rudimentary understanding of medieval chemistry, Xavier soon discovered that alchemy could be used for way more things besides the old and tired turn-metal-into-gold gimmick. A sly smile formed on Xavier’s face as he finished reading the last alchemy book in the library collection. With a careful hand and enough determination, he could transform anything into anything! Including the human body.

Xavier was ready to put his knowledge into practice that very same night. Against Enrique’s wishes, Carlos let his best friend sleep in their spare room for the night. While they were sound asleep, Xavier’s mind was racing with all the possibilities the world of alchemy had opened up for him.

Once he finally settled on a plan, he went into action. Xavier crept into Carlos’ room while he was snoring peacefully. He tiptoed slowly, careful not to wake him up, and kneeled beside his bed.

“Alright… Just five minutes then I get out… For the sake of science, nothing more…”

Xavier reached out to Carlos and pulled down his white undershirt. Then, with the tip of his pointer finger, he drew a heart right over his actual heart. He whispered an incantation as he did so. Once he finished tracing the outline of a heart, Xavier lifted his finger and then firmly pressed the center of Carlos’ heart. As soon as he had done so, Carlos’ snoring immediately ceased. It worked. Xavier successfully transformed him into a bodysuit.

While Xavier was overjoyed that his little alchemy experiment had worked, he knew he had no time to celebrate. Xavier had no idea how long the transformation would hold so he hurried to put the Carlos bodysuit on.

He pried the bodysuit’s mouth wide open then stuck his face inside. Xavier pushed his way down Carlos’ throat. The bodysuit’s internal fluids acted as lubrication for Xavier’s body as he slithered his way inside. He could hear all the slippery, wet noises Carlos’ body was making as it expanded to take in another human body. It was a tight squeeze but with enough force, Xavier was able to force himself into Carlos’ body with one final push. He was in.

Nrrghh…

Xavier heard a moan as he laid inside the bodysuit. He wasn’t sure if it was him or the bodysuit, though that was the least of his worries. Xavier began to stretch his limbs out from inside of Carlos. As his limbs slipped into Carlos’ limbs like sleeves, the once limp bodysuit sprang to life. Slowly but surely, Xavier was able to move and feel through Carlos’ body.

Urghhhh fuckk!!

Xavier let out a loud moan from within Carlos as his senses adjusted to their new body. All at once, he felt the sudden shift in body weight thanks to all the muscle mass Carlos had. Xavier smirked as he ran his hands down his newly obtained firm pecs and chiseled abs. The light body hair brushed against his fingertips, sending electric, sensual sensations as he explored his borrowed muscular body.

Mmmm fuck yeah…

Xavier purred with Carlos’ voice as he continued checking out his new body. He kept a wide grin as he did so. Xavier could hardly believe how much of a success his little alchemy experiment was. Movement… speech… feeling, Xavier controlled it all!

Even though Xavier was already very familiar with Carlos’ well-toned body, being able to see it from an up close perspective spurred great excitement and pleasure. The tent forming in his sweatpants was a testament to that. Xavier looked at his growing boner with a devilish smirk. He wanted nothing more than to grab and massage his cock, but decided against it. After all, 15 minutes had already passed and he swore he’d only allow himself five minutes.

Xavier laid back down in bed and let himself out of his borrowed body. He was ejected from Carlos’ body with a loud slurp, leaving an empty bodysuit behind in the bed. Xavier looked down at the limp bodysuit as his senses readjusted. He was worried about possible side effects, but was relieved when Carlos began snoring again after a few minutes had passed. Thankfully, the bodysuit technique he had performed on him seemed to be temporary. Xavier went back to the guest room and practically collapsed on the bed due to fatigue. Performing alchemy and taking on a new body left him physically and mentally exhausted.

Xavier woke up late the next day. Despite having slept in, he was sore and with body aches, most likely due to the bodysuit experiment he had pulled during the night. Xavier stretched and rolled out of bed, wondering who he would use alchemy on next. He had woken up so late that Carlos was already gone for rugby practice, leaving him alone with Enrique.

Enrique was busy working out in the back. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, sunglasses, and a hat. Even from inside the house, Xavier saw how sweaty Enrique was from doing yard work in the hot sun. He watched Enrique toiling away with a hoe for a few minutes.

“Hm… He’s not a bad option for a bodysuit. Thicker body type, some muscle, lots of body hair, full beard… Yeah, he could definitely be some fun to take over for a spin…”

Then quickly retreated into the hallway when he saw him coming inside. He refused to interact with a man he knew hated him. From the safety of the hallway, Xavier watched Enrique as he took a break on the couch. Enrique noticed Carlos’ notebook sitting on the coffee table and audibly groaned in disapproval.

“I told him he needs to stop drawing… All this art bullshit is gonna get in the way of his focus! I need to hide this before he gets back home.” Enrique leaned his head back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. All while not even noticing that Xavier was glaring at him with a growing vengeful lust.

Any hesitation Xavier had had disappeared when he heard Enrique’s plan. It was a simple plan with amazing benefits: Xavier would get to try out a dad bod, and because it was Enrique he’d be wearing, he could become his best friend’s dad and help him follow his dream of becoming an artist. It was a win-win situation!

Xavier waited a couple of minutes to make sure Enrique’s guard was down, then proceeded to take action. He crawled up to the couch and quietly positioned himself over Enrique. He then gently placed his finger on Enrique’s exposed chest and began outlining a heart, just like he had done with Carlos. Xavier’s finger practically glided along his chest because of how sweaty he was.

Hrmph… Hrm? What the—

Shit!!

Xavier was hoping Enrique had fallen asleep, but he was wrong. He was wide awake. Xavier finished performing the bodysuit ritual as quickly as he could. He managed to complete the ritual before Enrique could fight back. Enrique began transforming into a bodysuit. In a state of panic, Xavier hurried to put him on. He pushed his head into the mouth of the bodysuit and began forcing his way into Enrique’s body. He thought he was in the clear, but then he felt a rubbery hand holding him by the neck.

What are you doing!? Get out of me!!

Xavier heard Enrique’s voice rejecting his presence. He was shocked. He didn’t think someone could resist body invasion once they started turning into a bodysuit. It seemed like Enrique was a fighter! But so was Xavier. Xavier caught a whiff of Enrique’s sweaty musk as he fought his way in. The strong, masculine smell ignited a powerful lust inside of Xavier. He craved more and he was going to make sure he got it no matter what.

Xavier used his full strength to push himself in. Thankfully, although Enrique resisted against him, he was still turning into a bodysuit. The longer it went on, the less of a fight Enrique was able to put up. Xavier crawled his way inside of the dad bodysuit. Enrique’s body expanded and distorted as Xavier’s presence filled up the inside space. With one last burst of energy, Xavier was swallowed up by the bodysuit. The bodysuit began thrashing around on the couch as Xavier began stretching his limbs out into Enrique’s limbs.

Umphh… Stop…! Ughhnnn…

Enrique felt himself getting taken over by the young gay man as it happened. He absolutely hated the thought of it. He felt Xavier’s hands fill in his own hands like a well-fitting glove. He felt the same full sensation with his legs and feet. One finger at a time, one toe at a time, Enrique was completely powerless to fight against Xavier’s growing control over his body. And the worst part of it all was how good Enrique felt having someone wear him like a suit. As Xavier filled in the bodysuit from the inside, was hitting nerve endings Enrique didn’t even know he had. It sent shocks of pleasure that left Enrique jolting and moaning obscenely. His manhood was hardening and leaking precum from all the stimulation.

Aarrghhh fuckkkk!!

Xavier growled out with Enrique’s voice. He slipped his own cock into Enrique’s growing member like a personal dick sleeve, sending another wave of ecstasy throughout their shared body. An unwanted smirk formed on Enrique’s face once Xavier gained full control over his body. It was over.

Hey! Stop that!! Get your hands off my dick!!

“No way man! This cock’s mine now!!” Xavier teased. He made Enrique’s hands paw at their protruding package.

He then grabbed and lowered Enrique’s shorts with lightning speed. Enrique’s cock was at full mast and sprung out once it was released. Xavier whistled with delight as he admired his new cock. Enrique had a cock that was as thick as a beer can with a big tip and an unkempt bush of pubic hair too. After thrashing around from getting taken over, Enrique’s body was drenched and glistening with sweat. With a horny grin, Xavier lifted his arm and aired out his sweaty pit hair. The potent smell immediately filled his nostril. He leaned into his pit and took a deep sniff of his musk. The manly aroma fed his arousal, and made his already erect cock to grow even harder and longer.

Stop it! That’s gross!!

Xavier groaned when he heard Enrique complaining from inside his head.

“Are you sure, big guy? Seems like you’re into it too!” Xavier waved his erect member around, causing precum to drip around his hairy thighs.

Once Enrique quieted down again, Xavier decided to indulge. He leaned his face back into his ripe armpit and used his tongue to sip a few droplets of salty sweat hanging off his pit hair. He then took another few whiffs of his sweaty scent, groaning as he did so, then ran his fingers down his hairy torso. He stopped momentarily at his nipples to pinch them. Xavier loved the pain sensation jolting through his chest as he pinched his sensitive nipples. His hands continued slithering down until they finally reached his leaking manhood. Xavier ran his fingers through his new bush. His fingers got caught in the forest of thick, black hair. Xavier smirked as he tugged on his bush while his other hand began pumping his throbbing member— all while Enrique was conscious of him moving around with his body.

“Nrghh… fuck man!! Nghhh this feels so good…”

Xavier moaned loudly as he jerked off, much to Enrique’s dismay. Enrique couldn’t do anything but complain as Xavier had free reign over his body. Everytime he protested, Xavier moaned louder and louder until he stopped again.

This continued for about another five minutes until Xavier felt himself getting close. Once Xavier felt it, he grabbed his throbbing member with both hands and stroked ferociously. His pecs were bouncing up and down with every pump. He was dripping sweat everywhere from how intensely he was jerking off. Then, at the moment of climax, Xavier threw his head back and let out a sensual gasp as load after load of warm cum came shooting out of him like a fire hydrant. His cock was twitching and throbbing until every last load was pumped out of his heavy balls.

Xavier was breathing heavily. All of the body hair on his upper body became drenched and sticky with all the sweat and cum. He laid on the couch satisfied and completely relaxed, until he heard the garage door opening. Carlos was home.

“Oh fuck, not now!”

Xavier sprang to his feet and hurried to clean up after himself. He threw on his shorts and used nearby napkins to dry off his bodily fluids. No matter how hard Xavier tried, it made no difference. The couch was still soaking wet and he was still red in the face after his little tugging session, but it would have to do for now.

Carlos walked into the living room as soon as Xavier finished throwing away the evidence of what had happened.

“Hey Dad,” Carlos said.

“Hey… Son. How was practice?” Xavier said with a nervous stutter.

“It was fine, I guess.”

“Hey man, that’s really good to hear! I’m proud of you!”

“Yeah… thanks.” Carlos looked at him with a confused expression. He couldn’t access his mind even though he had perfect control over Enrique’s body. Without access to his memories, Xavier had to guess what Enrique would say. He was in uncharted territory, and he was terrified.

Carlos!! Hijo! Help me!! Your weird friend is controlling my body!!

Enrique was still shouting in Xavier’s head. Irritated, Xavier accidentally responded out loud.

“I swear to God will you just shut up already!?”

“I didn’t even say anything!!”

“Not you!!” Xavier looked over at Carlos. He shook his head to himself. “I’ve been feeling kind of weird today, I’m sorry.”

Carlos stood apprehensively for a brief moment, then lowered his guard again. “It’s alright, I understand. I had a really weird dream last night. I don’t feel like myself today either.” He took out a car key and offered it to Xavier. “Here, thanks for letting me borrow the truck.”

Not suspecting anything of it, Xavier tried reaching out for it. As soon as he did so, Carlos pinned against the couch.

“Fucking liar! I know it’s you in there Xavier!”

“Huh? No it’s not—”

“Save it. I know my Dad, and he would never say shit like ‘man’ or ‘I swear to God!’ What the fuck is going on!?”

“Okay okay I’ll tell you! Just let me get up first!”

Carlos did as asked. Xavier then explained everything to him. He explained how he used alchemy to turn Enrique into a bodysuit and took over his body and identity. Xavier explained that he wanted to help him pursue his dream of becoming an artist by taking over his dad’s identity. After he was done, Carlos stood up and paced around the room quietly.

“This is insane…” Carlos murmured. Xavier stayed quiet. “This is so fucking insane… And honestly? This might be the miracle I was praying for…”

Xavier was overjoyed that Carlos was on board with his plan. He pulled Carlos in for a bro hug, and after they hugged, Carlos told him to never do that again if he was going to act like his father from now on. Xavier chuckled and nodded.

“You got it, Carlitos, I’ll become an even better father than your dad ever was!” Carlos grinned.

“I’ll hold you to that, Dad.”

From then on, Xavier continued pretending to be Carlos’ father Enrique. Carlos had to teach him what to say and what not to say, but Xavier was a quick learner. Although Carlos still had to play rugby to keep his scholarship, he could finally devote more time to his artwork thanks to his father’s new attitude. Carlos was able to find success as a painter after he graduated. In fact, he had been invited to a gallery opening for rising new artists such as himself. His future as an artist was bright.

And while Carlos was busy making a name for himself, his best friend/new father lived happily too. Xavier loved his new dad bod, and so did the gay hunks at the local gym. They would never give him the time of the day back in his old body, but with his new DILF body? They were all over him. Although Enrique still occasionally complained in his head, Xavier learned how to ignore him. The old Enrique had become a distant memory over the years as Xavier and Carlos lived their best lives as a happy father and son duo.

Thank you for supporting!!

#male takeover #male identity theft #male body theft #male bodysuit #bodysuit transformation #musk #muscular #dad possession #commission story #commission

287 notes · View notes

keigo-chan · 8 months ago

Text

I Don’t Know Where To Put My Hands

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Keigo comes home, just for a bit, in the middle of spying on the League of Villains. He needs you, he needs this. And you love him. What else is there to say?

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings/Tags: Pro Hero!Reader, No Gendered Pronouns for Reader, Reader Has a Vagina, Extremely Dubious Consent, Unhealthy but Loving Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Masochism, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injury from Sex, Fluff but Evil

FULL TAGS/NOTES ON AO3

Communication from Keigo had all but disappeared after the battle in Kamino. He didn’t even text anymore. He certainly didn’t call. He didn’t even send mail, or notes, or anything. Civilians spotted him, even around the very city they lived in, as the tags you had alerts on for notified you, but he didn’t make any effort to contact you.

You tried to be calm about this. He was still alive. That’s what mattered. If he wasn’t trying to talk to you, it was because he couldn’t.

But that was a scary thought, too.

You thought about asking the Commission for a short leave. It was the Holiday season, so many other heroes were beginning to stagger out their own leaves. But that only made you more hesitant to do so in turn. Your agency- Hawks’s agency- was always close to reaching ‘understaffed’ numbers. You wanted to be there to help fill in the gaps. Especially with the biggest gap right at the helm of the agency. What was important these days, as the voice in your mind that sounded a lot like Keigo reminded you, was how the public saw the heroes. The best thing they could do was bring hope- so you kept busy making public appearances, trying to just keep up with him.

When you finally got home at the end of that week, the end of your set of patrols, you were exhausted. You were distracted by your phone when you unlocked your door and went in. You tripped over the threshold of it, barely catching yourself with your wings. You looked back at your stoop for what had made you fall, and saw a red book waiting for you.

Attached was a note. “From: K”.

Your heart dropped. You lunged for the book at once, picking it up and flipping through it. Just like you suspected, there were many highlighted portions.

You and Keigo had been working side-by-side for years, and though actual partners for longer, you knew a couple of the more intimate details of what the Commission dragged Keigo through. You’d known for a long time that skills associated with espionage would be necessary. The two of you had made up your own.

You flipped through the book, barely registering what it was even about, as you hurried to shut the door and locked all the locks behind you. You fluttered about quickly, drawing the curtains and blinds while opening the book with one arm. There was nothing else written not in code. You settled in on the couch and began to decipher.

You used a cipher, always based off of a word or phrase or date only you would know. The cipher that worked would correlate to the level of danger they were in or amount of secrecy they needed. You worked your way up three levels, to the day of your anniversary.

‘Being watched by LOV.’ Reading that alone had made the ever growing anxiety worse. Is that what he was doing? Something involving the League of Villains? ‘No big danger now. Keep ear to ground. Lay low. Attack in four months. Hope to come home for New Years. Miss you. Love you. Be safe. Keigo.’

You sighed out a long breath you didn’t know you were holding, shutting the book and resting your forehead against it. He’d held this book, had written in it with care. You wished he had left anything else, though the messy handwriting on his note was nice.

All of the feathers you’d had from him had faded, gone a very dark, dull red- a sign that they had died. Keigo no longer had control over them, and could no longer hear or feel through them.

If they were going to attack in four months, did that mean that he would be away until then?

You tried to clear the thought from your head. He was on a mission. Clearly one that even he took seriously. For now, you needed to take over as the cool-headed hero that everyone wanted. For now, you needed to take care of the Agency. Keigo’s image as a hero didn’t need to suffer, even if he was away.

You could do this. You would wait for the next couple of weeks, until you might be able to see him again. Keigo wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t decently sure that he’d be able to come back.

He’d be alright on his own. He’d be alright on his own. You set the kettle on to boil and made his favorite tea. It gave you an idea.

Over the next couple of weeks, you left things out for him. Boxes outside with small notes, assurances left in code. Sweaters and smooth pebbles and old trinkets they’d collected over the years, so that wherever he laid his head to rest, it would feel a little more like home.

He took them. Sometimes it was overnight, sometimes days or a week went by without them being taken. But he always did, and he always left something in return. A shiny, pink shell. One of his feathers. One of the silver rings he always wore, too big to fit anywhere but your thumb. You took to wearing it around at once, rubbing it when you were nervous or overwhelmed, thinking of him, thinking of his hands.

New Years came limping around the corner. You sent everyone in the agency home with warm smiles and their much-desired bonuses. You went back to your own home alone, shuddering under your coat. The Christmas tree had already been put away- because it had never gone up. You and Keigo always took it out together, decorated it together.

You hadn’t spent a Christmas without Keigo before since you’d met him. Even before you were dating, when the two of you found out you had no one else to spend it with, the agreement to visit each other came almost immediately. That very first time, you’d waited to put up the tree until that very day, and you hadn’t managed to finish decorating until he’d gotten there. You were ashamed- but he was just excited. He asked you, stars in his eyes, if he could help. He confessed, words rushed and still half-flying, that he’d never gotten to before. You didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. You handed him a box of mismatched ornaments gladly.

That night, you’d sat around the tree, the sight of threadbare branches and two gifts perhaps looking pitiful to anyone else, but there were lights. Keigo had gone and gotten lights mid-way through, saying he’d been struck by inspiration, and he hadn’t come back for quite a bit since most of the stores were closed, but they were beautiful. You’d turned the rest of the lights in the house off and just basked in the warm glow of them. They reminded you of Keigo’s eyes, a bit. That was the first time you’d rested your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his wing around you.

You couldn’t help but be upset that he hadn’t even mentioned Christmas, much less apologized for missing it, even if it felt a little childish. You felt homesick more often than not. All you wanted to do these days was lie in bed, lounging around in his baggy clothes, twirling dead feathers between your fingers.

You left him a gift before Christmas. When you saw that he still hadn’t picked it up the next day, all you could do was sigh. By the time New Years came around, the gift remained by your doorstep. You began leaving less and less, just to stop crossing that threshold.

You baked cookies that night. You lit candles and dimmed the lights and listened out for sparkles and fireworks all over. You’d started hating fireworks when you started dating Keigo. He’d made a joke once about having to fly through them and it made you sick to your stomach just thinking about it. He was as flammable as a bundle of dry straw. The heater was on, but you still wore one of his old, tacky Christmas sweaters around. You popped open a bottle of Champagne and poured yourself a glass.

You had a bad feeling, but you pretended like you didn’t. You glanced at the clock. Keigo wouldn’t have given you false hope- no matter how optimistic he was. But eventually, the clock struck eleven, and you were two glasses of champagne and batches of cookies in, and there was no sign of him.

You groaned when you finally heard the clock mark the hour, resting your forehead on the cold of the kitchen table.

Why were you so miserable without him? You obviously could never know, but you were willing to bet money on the idea that Keigo was not nearly as shaken up about it when he was away. In fact, the more dangerous a task he was about to embark on, the happier he seemed to send you away. A familiar coil of bitterness rose up in you. After all this time, he didn’t trust you. He didn’t think you could hold your own, not next to him.

But maybe he’s right, You mused, munching miserably on your cookie. After all, he goes away and I spend all my time sick and moping and thinking about him. God, I really am useless.

Maybe you should get a cat. Keigo was never their biggest fan, and they didn’t do well around his wings, but you really wanted one for times like these. And if he was going to spend this much time away from now on, what did it matter?

You were idly scrubbing a dish when the clock went off at midnight. Screams erupted from every direction around you, the sound of illegal fireworks, the cheers of loved ones celebrating with one another.

Honestly, you thought you’d be more sad, and angry, and disappointed. But you weren’t. The hour passed and it was the next year and Keigo wasn’t there to celebrate- like he always was- even though he said he’d try to make it and it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as Christmas. There was no one to call, no one to text. You finished washing the dish and downed the last of your glass, before pouring yourself another.

You settled onto the couch. You weren’t ready for bed yet, not with the sounds outside. You scrolled through a million shows and movies before settling on one you’d seen a million times, like white noise. It was past one am, and you had finished up your millionth game of Sudoku when you heard someone at the door.

Fear rang through you, at first. You were alone, you were tipsy, and your hero brain whispered that nobody would hear your screams with the din of New Years around you. You jumped to your feet the best you could, setting aside your glass and phone at once, preparing to defend yourself when you heard keys turn the lock.

It was Keigo. Of course, of course, it was just Keigo.

All of the resentment, all of the bitterness, all of the anger you told yourself you’d take out on him softened at once when you caught sight of him. Not only because he looked more tired than you’d seen him in a long time- with uncharacteristic bags under his weary eyes, slumped shoulders, and wings noticeably smaller than usual- but just because…

Because it was Keigo. Because, miraculously, he looked like he needed you more than you needed him.

“You’re awake.” He sounded surprised. He didn’t look it. Maybe he was too tired to even look surprised. He locked the door behind him, but didn’t move from across the room.

”I was-” You words caught around the lie. “I was waiting for you.” But he beamed, and you were glad you hadn’t told him the truth. Oh, Keigo. Always the optimist.

“I’m home now.”

“Yeah,” you walked to him, pace increasing with every step, until you were flinging yourself into his arms. Keigo, for his part, was more than ready. He caught you easily, and no more conversation was needed. When you kissed him, his face and nose and mouth were all cold, and he held you like a dying ember. The way you fell into each other reminded you of the moment you’d managed to catch him after the battle in Kamino, behind the alley, a moment you had been unable to stop yourself from replaying and replaying and replaying.

There was no thinking to be done while you were kissing, your mouths opened immediately for each other’s. You wrapped your legs and arms around him, indulging both of you in the kiss. He turned the two of you, pressing you flat against the wall. His kisses fell against your chin and neck, and then all at once-

“Keigo!” You gasped, which was the only thing saving it from being a scream as Keigo sucked at the skin on your neck hard. You squirmed, thrashed really, in his arms, trying to push him away, but it was fruitless. “What are you- Keigo, oh my God-” Your voice was just a whimper by the end as he barely even reacted to you. “W- wait, you can’t-”

The Commission had strict rules involving appearance. Some were obvious: no alterations may be made to the uniform without going through one of their designers, heroes must appear at the scene relatively kempt (unless coming from another battle), tears or rips must be mended by next appearance. But there were other, unwritten rules, pertaining to the professionalism of the costume. No hero could be caught drinking or smoking in their uniform. No hero should be seen doing non-heroic activities in their uniform. And, of course, famously, hickeys were not allowed to be showing while they were in uniform.

Everyone claimed to have a friend of a friend who had gotten in trouble for it, to the point that it was just something heroes knew to avoid while participating in… more illicit activities. But it had happened closer than that to the two of you. In fact, Keigo had once gotten in massive trouble when the Commission caught him with a hickey that you had given him. It was (mostly) an accident, and they hadn’t suspected where it actually came from, but he was put on night patrol with no breaks for the next couple of weeks.

You were extremely apologetic, but not enough to accompany him out all of those times.

Ever since then, you were both careful about it. After all, they really didn’t need the scrutiny that the Commission was trying to protect them from in a roundabout way. Not only would Hawks’s fangirls go ballistic if they thought he was actually seeing someone, but it would invite people to speculate on who. And nothing good would come of that.

This was to say, it wouldn’t be good if either of you showed up to your job with a lovebite visible on your necks, and concealer could only last for so long in a job like yours. The two of you whined and bitched about it, but for the most part, you reserved your marking for things below the collar, even if the ‘claiming’ of it all was half the fun.

Until tonight, apparently. Keigo was still sucking and biting at your neck like a man starved. “Sorry- sorry,” It sounded genuine, he sounded almost hurt him, but he didn’t stop. “Need- Need something permanent- need it to last-”

And it did hurt. You weren’t prepared for the sharp heat of it- but it was good. It was so good, Keigo’s lips wrapped around such a sensitive part of you, making you feel a mind-numbing pain derived intimately from his own mouth, his face buried into your neck, while he was holding you close together. And he was marking you. He was marking you and everyone would know you belonged to someone and entirely irrationally, for a split second, you hoped they would know it was Keigo.

He growled and pressed open-mouthed, sloppy kisses to your neck, before licking a stripe up your throat and swirling his tongue over what must have been the forming bruise. your head was going fuzzy from the abuse of your neck. You barely recognized the usual care he treated you with, even in their most morally bankrupt moments of fornication. Instead, he bit down on another part of your neck and started the process again.

You threw your head back and gave in, moaning and bucking your hips against him. This only seemed to egg him on, as his kisses grew more frantic and messy, and a heavy sort of note joined his panting, like he was moaning with every breath.

Your neck was starting to feel wet at this point, but you didn’t care. You could feel every move he made down to your pussy, and it was leaving no room for anything to go to your brain.

Several marks later, Keigo finally seemed to remember that there were possibly other ways that he could have you- though he didn’t give you any warning of this thought at all before he pulled you away from the wall and fell to his knees. This would have been alright, hot even, if you weren’t still attached to him. You yelped as they dropped, performing a clumsy combination of your arms flailing and still clinging to Keigo as he went down.

But you didn’t collide with the floor, you were simply on his lap now, nails digging into his clothes and back. He took the second of your confusion to tear off his work jacket and reveal the compression shirt underneath. You dearly loved the eyeful of his lithe muscles you got through the tight fabric. You ran your hands over his chest and shoulders appreciatively.

”You know, you could have given me a heads up,” You meant to scold him, but it came out more as a sort of pout. But Keigo didn’t laugh like he usually would have, didn’t even smile. He sort of frowned distantly as you spoke, staring only at your lips. “Keigo?” You brushed a lock of flaxen hair behind his ear. “Are you oka-”

”No,” He shook his head, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. He took an unsteady breath and shook his head, looking somewhere just past you. “N- no, I’m-” The glint in his eyes wasn’t right. You were contemplating it when he sprang back into action. He lunged, pinning you under him on the floor, but his arms had broken the worst of your fall. Still, you cried out in surprise, Your world suddenly in an entirely different orientation. Keigo licked and nibbled at your ear as he pulled off your- his- sweater roughly, the friction of it burning for a second. He tossed it aside carelessly before returning to his position right on top of you. His hands squeezed and groped at your chest painfully- and not in a good way.

Your head spun. What was going on? This was nothing like Keigo. Even when he was rough, it was usually only because you had asked for it, or confirmed it was what you wanted at least once. Every once in a while, you even had to egg him on. But this- this felt careless and crude, bouncing between the two extremes of him being too intense and not there with you at all.

“Ow,” You hissed, but it was really more of a whisper. You were almost afraid to snap him out of the trance, even as he bruised you in places you weren’t accustomed to. “Ow-”

”Please,” He whined. His mouth was against your chest, he had begun to work his way down. He sounded… truly pitiful. “Please, I- I need- I can’t-” He sat back up and away from you, running a hand through his hair, only for half of the strands to fall back into place right after. You finally got a good look at him, closer now than across the room. He was frantic, searching. His eyes darted around your face wildly, but he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “Please.” He slumped down again on top of you like his strings had been cut, all at once, landing hard onto you.

“Are you on something?” You wondered aloud. “It’s- it’s fine if you are, but you should tell me, Kei-chan-”

”No, no.” He shook his head frantically. “No, I swear, I just-” He tugged at your pants. His eyes grew pleading, beseeching. “Please-”

This wasn’t how you pictured their reunion. But he was looking at you with those desperate eyes, and you could only ever be the personyou were.

Keigo was hurting. You could help him. As always, you could do your service by helping him, by being at his side.

You didn’t speak. You just nodded. Keigo breathed out what could only be a sigh of relief and tore your pants off. You were wet, your moments of hesitation unable to strip that awaym especially not when Keigo spread your legs and dipped his fingers into the place that you had wanted him for weeks. Thankfully, he didn’t finger you. You shuddered a bit to think of what his thick, rough fingers would have felt like inside you in this state. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your knee and then tapped you gently on the ass. ”Flip over.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice.you turned and assumed your position, ass in the air and face against your arms on the floor. There was a second where it was just ou, in the dark, your face warm with your breaths and the sound filling your ears. Maybe- maybe it would be easier this way, unable to see his face.

There was no preamble before Keigo slammed in.

”Oh my GOD!” You shrieked, nails digging into the hardwood floor in front of you and leaving gouge marks in their wake. “Oh my fucking God,” He took you with a speed and strength that truly belonged on a battle field. Every other stroke or so hit your cervix, entirely bottomed you out with that thick cock of his, a Russian roulette of pain that entirely cleared your mind.

”Fuck,” He cursed. He gripped your hips brutally, but you didn’t even feel it over the flood of sensation below it. He pulled you back and forth against him like you were an to for him to use, something small and thoughtless he could move as he pleased. “Fuck, yes,” He hissed through his teeth sharply. “Holy fuck, you take it so good, look at you- taking my cock so fucking good.” He babbled.

”Please,” You choked out, eyes rolling back so faryou couldn’t see anything other than stars. “P- please,” A broken gasp wracked through your chest like a sob. In fact, you rather thought you were sobbing. Your fingers and hands jumped and convulsed, just trying to hold on, to regain any sort of footing as he fucked you into the floor. you didn’t even know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For more? For him to hold you, just hold you, so you could sit in the silence and look at the Christmas tree?

Your safeword danced on the tip of your tongue. You wished you could say that you hadn’t used it to be a good girlfriend, that you’d suffered through it all silently because it was clear he needed you, that you were kind and benevolent- but the truth was that you simply couldn’t even string enough of a thought together to control your tongue enough to say it.

”Please-” He panted, pleaded, “Baby, say my name-” His voice broke around the syllables. “I- I need to- pl- please, saymyname-”

“Kei- ei- go- oh-” Each sound was broken up by the bounce of you against his cock. You couldn’t speak properly even if you wanted to. You slurred his name, your tongue too heavy in your mouth, too confusing to move properly. “Kei- go!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” He whined, bending over your body. His chest pressed against your back. He was all over you, inside you, above you, all-encompassing. Each thrust sent your body back and forth against the floor, scraping against the skin of your face and arms. Your knees ached from holding yourself up on the hard surface. Your legs trembled, weak with the strength it took to even stay up. “So tight, so fucking tight-”

”Keigo- w- wait, please-“ You gasped out, but the words were unintelligible to even your ears, too breathy and muffled and confused, too pierced through with your moans. Instead, all Keigo heard was ‘please’. The next couple of thrusts were even harder.

Your mind and body couldn’t take it any longer, you tensed, trembled so much your limbs began to hurt, and came so hard you saw white. The scream you let out was guttural, and gave its way into sobs. Your whole body gave out, but unfortunately, Keigo’s grip didn’t relent, he hardly even noticed. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease-”. You keened pitifully. “Keigo-”

His grunts and noises had become animalistic. There were no more words or pleas from him. Instead, he moaned his own release, slamming into you with absolute abandon, finishing inside you by using his body’s weight to pin you all the way to the floor. You were squeezed between the two unrelenting surfaces, as Keigo came as deep as he could possibly go, gravity assisting him in his terrible mission.

Finally, finally, he was still.

He breathed heavily above you as you shook and trembled and just tried to do the monumental task of catching your breath or moving your limbs. Your hands shook so hard it looked like you had tremors when you tried to draw them back into yourself.

Every body part that you could think of ached in one way or another. You tested different parts of yourself, operating them like a puppet who had just gained control of their own body. It was a long while before Keigo let up, long enough that you had almost forgotten it was him on top of you. You lifted your own face from the floor. It was wet. You hadn’t even realized you were crying or drooling. Your hair stuck to your face with tears and sweat. you took a deep, shuddering breath.

Keigo pulled out. You felt his soft cock slip out of you and were astounded that the now-feeble part could have done what it just had. You remained on the floor, little will to move, no capacity to consider what he might think about it.

He laid his hand on your hip. ”Hey, do you wanna-” But you jumped. You hadn’t meant to. But it was a motion so sudden it startled him. He blinked. And it came to him. The scene, the house, his love- it all finally appeared in front of him. “Oh my God-” He breathed, expression stricken and horrified. “Oh my God, baby bird, I- oh my God-” You tried to push yourself off the ground, but your arms gave out underneath you, and it looked downright painful as youfell. Keigo pulled you up at once and flipped you over, as gently, but quickly, as he could.

Keigo hoped, prayed, that it wasn’t as bad as he suddenly remembered it all was-

When you turned, something in the back of your head warned you to school your expression into a more neutral mask, but it was too slow and quiet. But every bit of the shock and confusion you felt must have been evident on your face, because when Keigo turned you around, he shattered.

He dissolved into sobs, curling and melting onto you, into you. It only took a split second before you, too, were crying, until you were both wracked with it, holding each other. Clinging tighter than ever before.

There was nothing else to do.

*****

You woke first the next morning- and you woke in pain. The way your insides ached made you feel like maybe the phrase ‘rearrange their guts’ wasn’t as fun as it was before. You realized, when you went to the bathroom, that you had been bleeding. A wave of sickness. You put on a pad and walked carefully back to bed.

The noise of the bathroom alone had woken Keigo. He locked eyes with you as soon as you came out of the restroom. Your heart sank. You immediately tore your own away. You were really hoping he wouldn’t wake for a while. He sat up as you got into bed, back towards him. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

You gave in. You flipped over towards him, tossing an arm around his lap, your forehead against his hip. He rubbed a hand down your back, almost on instinct. You hated the way his hand jumped away once he realized what he was doing like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

You gave a gentle demand, ”C’mere.” He obliged at once, shifting down to rest next to you. You were careful not to make eye contact, even as he stared at your face, watching your expressions like- well, like a hawk. You adjusted until you were lying on his chest, arms curled around him. He was sleep-warmed. Comfy. Smelled familiar.

It was still Keigo.

Just Keigo.

Always Keigo.

Only Keigo.

”I’m bleeding.” You said softly, shutting your eyes. You didn’t know why. You didn’t want to guilt him. You didn’t really even want him to know. But you felt like he needed to. Deserved to, even. You listened to the sharp breath he took.

”Fucking shit,” He breathed, and that was it for a moment. You pretended like you couldn’t hear him crying. He pretended like he couldn’t feel you do the same.

”Will you make me some tea?” You asked quietly, when you had both gone still and silent again. Keigo jumped up at once. He was just in his boxers, the ones he had pulled on last night when you had finally gone to bed in a daze.

”Yes. Yeah. Of course.” He nodded, looking grateful for something to do. He hurried off to the kitchen at once. You laid on in warm space he had left on the bed. You tucked yourself in and sniffed the pillow he’d been lying on deeply. It smelled like him- like the man you knew and loved. In the kitchen, pots and pans moved around, water ran, the stove clicked to life.

It wasn’t long before the smell of food filled your nose instead. It smelled like grilled fish and rice. After another couple of minutes, he walked in, holding your favorite mug.

”What kind?” You asked, pointing for him to set it down on the bedside drawer.

”Your favorite.” He didn’t even let you react before he hurried out, “ButIcanmakeyouadifferentone! I just- I thought that I- I guess I could have asked-” He winced at his own words, and you sighed.

”It’s fine, Keigo.” But your voice sounded tired, even to you, and his name rang cold. ”Thank you.” He hesitated. You buried yourself deeper under the covers. You just… didn’t want to hear it right now. Thankfully, whether he got the message or simply couldn’t decide what to say, he walked out of the room once more. After another ten minutes, you finally stood and came to the kitchen, wincing as you did so. He smiled when he caught sight of you, but the worried furrow in his eyebrows didn’t unknot.

”H- Hey, good morning. I made breakfast.” He gestured around at the spread. You eyed it over. “I- um- there’s fish and rice and miso soup and a rolled omelet- I made coffee, too, just in case- or we could- we could always order takeout or-”

”Hey.”you put your mug down on the table and walked towards him. His wings drew up, somewhere between fear and shame. He seemed to balance on a knife’s edge as you stood in front of him. You leaned forward and rested your forehead on his bare chest. “It’s okay.” You said softly, wrapping you arms around him and stroking at his back, between his wings.

Keigo nodded shakily, before finally hugging you back.

”I- I just- I didn’t feel like me when I came in last night,” He babbled against the top of your head, “And I’ve- I’ve felt really lost in the mission, all of my interactions are being watched, I could only step away last night because-” He took a breath. You felt the shudder in his body. He was tense, like he wanted to hold you tighter, but was too afraid to. “I wanted to come back and feel like me, I wanted- I-“ You hushed him. Keigo buried his face deeper into your hair. ”I’m…” Keigo started. You tensed. “I’m so-”

”Don’t.” You snapped.

You had an unspoken agreement- the two of you never apologized. You were almost proud of it, your ability to move on from mistakes and stupid things the other had said. You gave each other space any time you had an argument, and came back with level heads and open arms. This was the first real thing either of you had, they were both bound to make mistakes. You were happy you both knew that, and found something that worked for you guys, even if other people didn’t understand it.

Hearing him almost do so now made your throat tight and eyes burn.

”No, really, what happened last night-”

”Takami Keigo.” You wrenched yourself out of his grip, instead grabbing him by the arms, pinning them to his side. The cruelty in the sneer and look and touch and name shocked him like ice water. “It’s fine. I said yes. I could have used my safe word. I ask you to be rougher all the time. It-“ You cleared your throat. You removed your hands. “It is fine. I need you to drop it.”

Keigo stared, face to face with bared teeth and anger. “Okay.” His voice was just a whisper.

You stared for one last minute before letting go and turning away, back to your tea.you took a long, deep draught, before something caught your eye. He looked where your gaze fell. It was a mirror, in the hall. You touched your neck. “I forgot about those.” You hummed, looking thoughtful. Keigo couldn’t discern anything else from your expression, so he said nothing.

He turned away and grabbed a couple of dishes and began to plate everything up for the two of you. Before you sat down, he grabbed a pillow from the couch and placed it under you without a word. For this, at least, you were grateful.

You ate in silence for a while. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. He found it a little hard to look at you, now, close up. He wished he could have been pleased to see you all marked up, but instead, you just looked… bruised. Battered. The way you did after a battle didn’t go your way. There was an exhaustion in your eyes you couldn’t fake and you didn’t bother to hide.

“When are you leaving?” You asked, your voice carefully free of any inflection. He bit his cheek. Usually this question would be asked with the clear wish that it wouldn’t be for as long as possible. But today, he was unsure.

“I was-” Any strength in his voice broke. “I need to leave tonight.” He admitted. You were entirely still for a moment, but just a moment. You resumed eating, without even looking at him the whole time.

“Alright,” Was all you said, soft and small and sad. Your utensils clicked, but otherwise, it was silent.

*****

The first day of the New Year was difficult. For once, you found yourself glad that Keigo was leaving. No matter what you did, you couldn’t get rid of the silent stiffness that permeated all of your interactions. Perhaps the distance would do you good for once.

When night fell, Keigo had to leave. He stood by the door and you came to say your goodbyes. He held his arms out tentatively, and you fell in at once. He squeezed you tightly. You squeezed back.

”How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly. ”…Probably at least another three months.“ Your heart sank. You knew that, but to hear it was another can of worms. “But I will visit before then, I promise.”

”Okay,” Your voice was hollow with unshed tears. As he made to pull away, something desperate in you woke at once, and you held on tighter. “I- I miss you so much when you’re gone.” You rushed out, like he didn’t know that already. “This mission was so sudden, I went from seeing you all the time to not at all, and I don’t know what you’re doing or how dangerous it is, and I don’t even have anyone I can talk to about this because you’re who I talk to about things, please don’t leave me.” Your pathetic plea rang in the air for much longer than was comfortable.

He spoke, “I’ve been seeing you online again.” Picturing him seeing all the embarrassing headlines and memes and photos from your recent appearances made you groan. “You have no idea how proud I am of you, or how much I miss you, too. I’ll tell you all about it the second I can.” He pulled away a bit, cupping your cheek in his large, warm hand, lifting your chin to look at him. “I don’t- I don’t want to do this again, okay?” His gaze was loving, and sincere. You nodded, tears beginning to stream down your cheeks silently. “I don’t like it either, I promise.” He kissed your forehead. “Be brave, okay?”

“Okay.” You nodded, but the lump in your throat and chest hadn’t gone away. He hugged you again, and you both rocked back and forth and back and forth.

”Hey,” He said seriously. “I love you.”

That was another thing you didn’t say. Or, at least, it was very rare. You really only said it when you didn’t have to actually… say it. You wrote it in notes in code or texts. Occasionally, during a very intimate moment, or if you weren’t sure you were going to see each other again.

You swallowed, wondering which one of these things was true now.

”I love you, too.” He wrapped his wings around you. Their hold was soft and strong, and you felt like you could breathe easier, even if your chest was tighter.

Finally, finally, you pulled away. ”I’ll see you soon.” He promised, and your lips met for one last kiss.

”See you soon.” You repeated throatily. You waved with a miserable little half-smile as he slipped out the door, taking his bright red wings, all the color, and your heart from your world.

When you went out the next day, you remembered Keigo’s present and groaned unhappily, having forgotten to remind him of it- but when you went to check it, you saw that he had taken it, and left something in its stead.

It was a tiny box, covered in shiny, red wrapping paper. You stepped right back inside your place and tore it open, finding a ring box inside the first. Inside was a silver band made of metal feathers widing their way into a ring. Your mouth fell open at that alone, only to realize that there was an extra slit in the box.you checked the larger box it had come in. Inside was two photos- one that must have been of the advertisement, with your ring and a thicker-banded version of it- and the other was one of Keigo.

In the photo, he was somewhere far in the sky during sunset, pink and purple and orange and lovely all around him. He was beaming, always so handsome, but glowing with the halo of the sun and his smile. His wings were a blur behind him, but in front of him, his gloveless hand was fanned out, showing off his own ring from the matching set.

You laughed through tears, sliding the ring onto your finger. It seemed he hadn’t forgotten about Christmas, after all.

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zosan-secondchances · 2 months ago

Text

The Pirate King of the North: Part 12

Main Themes: V̸͉́i̸̘͛l̶̘̀l̴̞͘a̷͙͆ǐ̶̧ṅ̷̰ ̸̉͜Ṡ̶̬a̷̞̎n̴͖̚j̵͝ͅḯ̶͖, Alternate Universe, Zosan Ship

Warning: Long post ahead and some One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language and explicit content.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

While Zoro, Sanji and Law were in the middle of their little game, Niji had other things to attend to.

The sun is nearly set and the blue-haired commander was crouched down, safely hidden in the dark refuge of the treeline overlooking a tavern in Mock Town. It had been raining around Jaya as the Heart Pirate mink had predicted.

For hours now, he'd been listening to the conversation between the establishment's patrons and one of Doflamingo’s lackeys, Bellamy the Hyena. The obnoxious man drunkenly bragged about the different missions he'd been personally assigned to by the Warlord himself. As one of Germa’s skilled agents, Niji knew that most of the his stories had been embellished to impress the crowd.

He's glad that he had managed to slip in a transponder snail in Bellamy's possession earlier that day. It wasn't easy, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity before him.

While one hand holds onto his own snail, he reaches up to check the state of his helmet with the other, worried about its condition as he feels a large part of the front barely hanging on. He knew that one significant damage to it may split his entire headwear, and he doesn't have enough resources to patch it up if that occurs. If he's not careful, he might put himself out of commission for months until Sanji is able to make him a new one.

He considers bailing multiple times in favour of actually doing exactly what his brother had instructed him to do for his own safety. He meant to drop off the condensed Seastones at one of their labs, go home to recover and get help from Reiju or Ichiji to repair his helmet, then off to Dressrosa to go undercover.

Ultimately, he decides to delay the new mission in favour of staying a bit longer, not wanting to miss the slim chance that he could learn more about the current whereabouts of Doflamingo and his plans from one of his loyal lackeys who reside in an island that's way out of reach given its immense distance from home.

There was a sudden snap of a twig nearby. Without hesitation, he draws out his sword and swings behind him. He stops his attack just inches away from an open palm hand that was ready to catch his blade. He hisses at the sight and begins to speak in a hushed manner.

Niji

Fuckin’ hell, Yonji.

The green-haired man, fully equipped in his Raid Suit, straightens up and cracks his neck side to side.

Yonji

Yo.

Niji

Don't do that. I don't have Sanji's observation haki. That freak can tell how many steps I take on my way to the bathroom from my own bloody room.

Niji sheaths his sword then places the transponder snail gently on a rock protruding out of the grass in front of them so they can both hear the ongoing conversation through it. He takes notice of Yonji kneeling down next to him, also attentively listening in. The other man mirrors his whispering.

Yonji

Maybe you're just getting sloppy. What with how much you wear that…thing.

Yonji nods towards his cracked helmet. Niji gives him a side glance in return, unaffected by the statement. Wearing it for prolonged periods has been an argument that they repeatedly have now and then. The last time this was in discussion, they simply agreed to disagree.

Niji

So? Where's yours?

Yonji

I didn't bring it.

The blue-haired man sighs disappointingly.

Niji

I know it's useless to tell you, but you really oughta have it on hand more often. Even if it's just for emergencies.

Yonji grunts in response. He tips his head towards the den-den mushi.

Yonji

So what are you doing here?

Niji

I'm here to see to a rumour. Well…several rumours.

Yonji

Rumours?

Niji nods. He allows himself to relax a little now that he has his brother for support. He sits back on his ass and leans his head back to look up at the trees, watching the droplets of water drip down from their leaves.

Niji

Word is, Doflamingo had managed to find Sanji's…owner. The one he was sold to when he was younger.

Yonji raises a brow at him, intrigued at the news.

Niji

And…apparently, he'd given up a lot just to buy him. It cost a fortune.

The green-haired man crosses his arms, processing the information.

Yonji

Is it to get the Celestial Dragons off his back…or to control him? The last I heard, Mihawk backed out of the hunt suddenly.

Niji

Mihawk was assigned? I thought the old fossil was retiring?

To answer your question, I'm not sure yet…. I'm inclined to believe that it could be both, knowing the devil.

He shifts in his seat and pulls up his hood to protect himself from the now pouring rain. Glancing to the side, he notices Yonji just accepted getting soaked, his hair slightly disheveled.

Niji

The other rumour is that this guy, Bellamy, is keeping the Proof of Ownership papers safe for Doflamingo. It's…not much of a rumour given how big his mouth is.

Sure enough, the transponder snail bellows out the man's loud laughter after bragging about his newest promotion, and how he's well on his way to become the Warlord's right hand man if he plays his cards right.

Niji

It makes sense that he'd assign him here to hide the papers. This place is on the opposite side of the world from Dressrosa, and the guy is grossly loyal.

But I'll believe it when I see it. With you here, we might actually be able to find and destroy them right here and now. Then we can finally cut ties without all the running around to see if Corazon is still alive or not.

Yonji

Hmm….

Niji

See? You can come up with a perfectly logical plan, even with emotions!

Yonji

Tch.

Niji

Speaking of plans…what are you doing here? Are Reiju and Ichiji around too?

I told you guys that I can respond to Sanji's distress signal by myself since I'm the fastest. I didn't call for backup.

Yonji

I came to check in because Reiju had exclusively ordered you to extract Sanji from the Demon Warlord. And you've gone radio silent for weeks.

What's your status?

Niji shrugs his shoulders.

Niji

I needed to disappear to safely escort Sanji and the Heart Pirates to Skypiea.

He didn't need rescuing. He's… ugh… “involved” with the Demon Warlord now. They're travelling together.

Yonji takes a sharp breath in and glares at him.

Yonji

He died in his presence, Niji. How do you suppose that happened? Roronoa Zoro has been trying to kill him for a very long time.

Niji

Look, I know it's a shock. But you're just going to have to trust me on this one. Things have changed. Reiju and Ichiji would get it. I'm sure of it.

I…have a feeling that we'll see more of that swordsman. Ugh….

The blue-haired commander runs his fingers over the cracks of his helmet.

Niji

I'll never forgive him for this though. But at least I know that he can hold himself in a fight. I can vouch that he is what they say he is.

Yonji

He did that? We already knew that he's a monster.

Niji

Err…yeah. But I started the fight.

Yonji stands calmly, his eyes hidden from his darkened expression. His movements were almost robotic and stiff.

Yonji

You failed to extract Your Majesty from the Demon Warlord, as you were ordered to.

Your own, clearly, terrible decision-making ability includes starting a fight with the very enemy our king cannot defeat himself. You've put yourself in danger, and potentially our home.

Niji looks up at him with his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Yonji

The worst part is, you allowed their relationship to develop when you could have done something about it. It almost sounds like you approve of it.

Niji

I watched them very carefully for weeks, Yonji. It's not exactly a decision that's up to me either. Sanji seemed genuinely happy and…

His mind floods with the small shy moments that he has had with their head chef, Cosette: The way she'd put extra syrup aside for his waffles just the way he likes it; how she'd give him the warmest smile as they pass each other by the halls; how she'd stay up late just to personally deliver him a glass of water during his training sessions, how their fingers would gently touch when she passes it to him, and how his heart would jump at every contact that they allowed each other.

Niji

It's not… easy for us. We're not exactly the perfect family, or humans for that matter. We're barely one. You know?

Yonji

No, I don't know, Niji.

He takes a looming step forwards, as he raises his clenched fists up to his sides.

In retaliation, Niji swiftly jumps back to a stance, unsheathing his sword with one hand while the other clawed outwards as sparks of electricity emanate from it.

Niji

Yonji…you never told me how you knew where to find me.

There was a moment of silence. Only then did the blue-haired man realise that there were no more sounds coming from the transponder snail.

He hears rustling of leaves all around and notices a contingent of pirates surrounding them. Bellamy himself is stalking directly behind him with a malicious grin on his face.

When he returns his gaze to his brother, the last thing he sees is a fist before darkness overtakes him.

—

Zoro emerges from the tent in the wee hours of the morning, only wearing his haramaki and trousers as he ended up using his robe to clean himself from Sanji's nosebleed last night. The air was chilly, and the surroundings were covered in a layer of fog from the abundance of the clouds present in Skypiea. The swordsman squints his eye and looks around, trying to make sense of the state of their campsite. He finds Law bent over what used to be their campfire, trying to relight it to make himself a morning coffee.

Zoro

Hey, have you seen Curly?

Law grumbles quietly to himself, cursing at the damp kindling that he tosses away to swap for a new one.

Law

How should I know? I thought he was with you?

I barely slept a wink last night. I thought you two promised to tone it down while we're travelling together?

Zoro

He went out but didn't come back last night.

Law snaps his head over his shoulder to look at him. After a brief pause, he stands, dropping the flint he'd been using.

Law

That's not good.

In a rush, the swordsman passes him to get to their packs and begins dressing himself with a fresh shirt to protect himself from the chill.

Zoro

I'm going to look for him. I'll be back.

He secures his swords around his waist and is about to depart when Law holds his hand out in front of him.

Law

No, the fog is too thick. You need to stay here.

Zoro

All the more reason for us to spread out to find him.

Law

Not when you're doing it with someone who has a sense of direction of a rock.

Zoro suddenly enrages and grabs to pull him by the scruff of his neck. His other fist clenched in the air just inches away from the doctor's face.

Zoro

I don't have time for this shit, Traffy. Don't try to stop me.

With widened eyes, Law grips Zoro's wrist and tries to wriggle away from his hold with no luck. He studies the man's clearly panicked state then raises both his hands in defeat.

Law

I apologise. That was uncalled for.

Do you know where he'd gone and why he left? You don't think he was…

Zoro pushes him away and runs a hand over his own face. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he shut his eye tight, feeling remorseful and distressed.

Zoro

I said something that may have freaked him out. I just…. Maybe we were taking things too fast? This is all new to me. I've never….

How do you know when to say the right things? I just thought we…. Maybe I'm reading things wrong….

When he finishes talking–or rather, stammering out words–he crosses his arms together, looking small.

Law's expression softens as he feels sympathy for him.

Law

Room.

A blue sphere expands from his hand outwards then he brings out his sword to raise it slightly out of its sheath.

The swordsman looks around him to watch.

Law

Scan.

A vertical beam travels outwards from his blade then around the orb surrounding the area. When it finishes its revolution with no results, Law sighs disappointingly and returns his sword in its scabbard. He walks towards their packs and begins to rummage through his belongings.

Law

He's not nearby, so I need you to stay and see if there's any clues as to his whereabouts.

Zoro

But–

The doctor throws a transponder snail to him as he pockets one for himself, interrupting the other man's protests. Zoro catches the small creature in time.

Law

Someone needs to stay here in case he comes back. The fog’s a bit thick so I'll need to scan further away to see if I can find him. With luck, I don't have to use it too much. It's a little exhausting.

Call me if you find anything useful or if there's trouble.

The swordsman opens the palm of his hand to stare at the snail in his possession, then he gives the other man a glare, unhappy with his decision.

Law

Mr. Prince-ya wouldn't just leave us without good reason. He did just say that he's sticking around last night.

He starts walking past him then pauses.

Law

Though you should know…

Zoro furrows his brows worriedly, listening intently.

Law

We're not out of the woods yet after what happened in Sabaody Archipelago. I'm sure that you've read the papers and, least to say, it's not good. Expect some repercussions. We did everything we could to travel here unnoticed but…

Zoro

You don't think that's why I want to go out there? I should be the one looking for him.

Law turns to him with an annoyed expression on his face, his patience wearing thin.

Law

Not in this weather, Zoro-ya. Yesterday, you said that you'd follow my plans by the book–this is one of them. I entertained our little game but now, I need you to listen to me and stay. That's my final word.

He watches the swordsman visibly tremble in anger.

Zoro

I don't have to listen to you. You're not my captain.

What if… what if he….

Zoro's other hand clenches into a tight fist. The swordsman is still too anxious and stressed to be fully satisfied with the plan of action.

Law

If I'm not back in an hour, come find me, or do whatever the hell you want.

He approaches the other man to place a hand on his shoulder then gives it a reassuring shake.

Law

We don't know what happened yet. Maybe he just needed space last night and now he's off getting us some breakfast.

Zoro finally looks at him eye to eye. He breathes in deeply to compose himself.

Zoro

Alright. I just…I already waited all night and…nothing. I'm done sitting around.

The doctor gives him a final nod before walking away.

Law

One hour.

—

Law worked his way west and scanned again but yielded no results. So then he proceeds around to try his luck, southward from their campsite where they had travelled. He climbs a tree then scans the surroundings for his third attempt.

Finally, he sees a satisfying blink from his sights. He clambers down and proceeds to the location.

Approaching slowly, by a small stream, he finds Sanji in an oversized shirt, hunched over the edge, painstakingly washing a long piece of fabric that looks like his cloak.

The doctor was certain that his own footsteps made noises by the rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs as he walked directly behind him but he didn't see any sort of reaction from the man. That's when he sees blood trailing downstream from the cloth.

Law

I've been looking everywhere for you.

The blonde didn't hear him. He continues to clean without so much as noticing what's happening close to him.

Law's eyebrows furrow, finding it unusual that the man with arguably the best observation haki between the three of them wasn't aware of his presence, let alone see his Room sphere when he scanned the area earlier.

Law

Mr. Prince-ya?

Nothing.

Carefully, he reaches out and touches the man's shoulder.

Sanji flinches and gasps as he turns his head over his shoulders to look at the doctor frightfully. His wide eyes bore deep shadows underneath it and he looks visibly shaken from the contact. He was pale and looked thinner than usual with his sunken cheeks, on which one side had a fresh purple bruise and his lip had been cut open on one corner.

Law’s eyes widen but he stops himself from looking too shocked at his state. He withdraws the hand that he held him with, and raises it as a sign that he meant no harm.

Law

Are you okay? The swordsman said that you've been missing since last night.

Sanji eases a little but he still looks very tense. He returns his attention to washing the stain off his cloak. Upon closer inspection, the doctor catches sight of his trembling body, evident by the mad involuntary shaking of his hands.

Sanji

I'm here, aren't I?

He spat out the words with a forced voice that sounds venomous but Law detects a layer of facade with the man. He lets him carry on, but he can't help but notice that the bloodstain that he's meticulously working on had already been rubbed onto the fabric permanently, and it looks like he's just cleaning it more so to keep his hands occupied and while his mind is probably someplace else. It would explain the vulnerable state he'd unintentionally put himself in.

Law

I find it hard to believe that this is where you've been all night. Where were you? Did something happen?

Sanji

I just needed some space. I'll be up there in a second, alright? So just leave me be.

Sanji hunches his shoulders and shifts a little, causing his hair to fall forward around his shoulders. It reveals his uncovered neck.

Softly and gently, Law speaks to him in a low voice.

Law

You know…if you like, I can remove it.

Sanji

Can you leave me alone? Please…? I can do laundry just fine like I have been for everyone on your ship. So go away.

The blonde's voice broke as he spoke and his body trembled more. His face is hidden under the fringe of his hair but the doctor could tell he's on the verge of crying.

Law gives him a moment. When he notices that the quiet is progressively causing the blonde to shake further, he continues.

Law

I meant your slave mark.

Sanji stills. His hands slowly clench into fists.

Law

When I operated on you, I wanted to remove it like I did with Jean Bart's but I didn't want to do it without your consent.

I can't remove it with my powers because it's burnt on your skin but I can surgically repair it with clean skin tissues. I just need a small sample from you. It will look like nothing happened.

Sanji

But something did happen.

A lot of shit. Happened.

He accentuated parts of his statement by growling the words and frustratingly punching into the shallow water with splashes. Law has a feeling that he wasn't just referring to the events surrounding his mark. After a few seconds of quiet, the blonde sniffs as his head dips down. The doctor could hear him sobbing softly.

Unintentionally, Law strokes the furline of his own coat, remembering that silly bet that the other man took and honoured with the Heart Pirates crew.

Law

Or…you know, I can just…clean your laundry for a change. It won't take long at all.

You've been doing that for us for a while, even way past you were expected to.

Law had said that in a light tone as an attempt to brighten up the mood. Clearly the blonde didn't want to talk about what's bothering him but he needed–wanted–to try and make him feel better. Only then did he notice how Luffy and Sanji's positivity and kindness had rubbed off on him over time.

There is a brief pause then suddenly Sanji drops his cloak, turns to stand and wraps his arms around to pull him into a tight hug, pinning his arms to the sides. The blonde begins sobbing quietly but his shoulders shakes violently.

Law

Uhh….

Law has no idea what to do. He stands there uncomfortably for a while as he lets the man cry it out. He tries to remember what Luffy, Bepo or anyone on his crew would do in this situation. In the end, he resorts to giving him awkward pats on the back as far up as he could reach.

Law

Th–there, there…?

He spoke with great uncertainty and felt his face flush red from embarrassment. It really isn't like him to even say that or return someone's hug, and yet here he is. He begins to question how and why he got into this mess.

Eventually, Sanji releases him and takes a step back, looking down sorrowfully with his eyes full of tears and nose runny with snot. Law wasn't sure how much help he did after seeing the state of him, but he believed that the fact that the blonde is out of whatever trance he was in is progress.

Law

Listen, when you told me everything about your family weeks ago, your brother said that you were offering your trust for mine. So that's what I'm doing, okay?

Sanji

Oh, Traffy….

Sanji cleans his face by wiping it with the inside collar of his shirt. When he sets his arms down, he looks less sad but more anxious.

Law

So whatever happened last night, I trust that you did the right thing. I'm not going to question you about it or ask for details unless it's something you want to talk to me about, but that's up to you.

And… there's nothing… weird about… hugs.

Law shivers at mentioning the word, earning a weak smile from the blonde but it didn't last long as it fades as quickly as it came. Then finally, Sanji replies softly.

Sanji

Right….

Law

Right.

We should probably head back before Zoro-ya wanders off on his own. I promised I'd be back with you before the hour's out.

But… think about my offer? We can do it any time back on my ship.

…No pressure.

The blonde didn't reply. Instead, he averts his gaze and wraps his arms around himself after hearing his other half's name.

Law walks past him to pick up the discarded cloak by the stream. With flicks of his hand, he casts his Room ability and extracts the water and blood from the fabric. He then offers it back to Sanji who takes it gratefully.

—

Zoro was about to head out ten minutes earlier than the agreed time period when Law returned with Sanji in tow. The man looked worse than when he carried him back from Sabaody, but he was thankful that his life wasn't in immediate danger and, to his knowledge, there was less blood involved.

When the swordsman approached to fuss and ask details about the blonde's facial injuries and events of the previous night, the doctor stopped him and told him to give the man some space. Sanji simply walked by them and proceeded to properly dress himself and pack up for the day.

Breakfast was put together before setting out, which the blonde took initiative to prepare and serve for the other two with their own choice of morning brew. He didn't have any for himself. Instead, while the others ate their fill, he took a moment to burn the cursed oversized shirt that he had returned to camp with.

—

The fog had settled, which the three were grateful for, but the trek was a lot quieter compared to the exciting one yesterday.

Their path has fewer trees now, but in place is a steep uphill trail with an open meadow littered with flowers and ancient ruins covered with overgrown moss sticking out of the ground. Thanks to the clearer weather, the vast spread of the White Sea is visible, stretching far into the distance if one is to turn their backs to the small dirt path they had been following. The intensity of the wind was more punishing the higher they travelled, but the sight was to behold.

Sanji kept his distance, choosing to be the last one behind as he followed the two like a mindless husk, too dazed to pay attention to the lovely scene before him. Zoro thought that he'd absolutely be beside himself at the sight in his normal state. He was tempted to take pictures for the man on his behalf like he was doing throughout yesterday but decided against it as the blonde probably didn’t want any proof of a time when he’s feeling down. A part of him was really hoping that the view would bring him some semblance of joy.

It didn't. Instead, Sanji kept his head down and trudged on quietly. Law had to verbally call him out to make sure that he was heading the right direction several times, and to make sure that he hurdles the smallest of obstacles like walking over wobbly rocks because his head is too far gone to focus properly. Without Law's warnings, he'd be tripping on his feet, which had already occurred too many times for Zoro's liking.

Neither three had rested much from the previous night, that much the swordsman knows, but he suspects that the blonde had suffered more damage than just lack of sleep.

After a long while, Zoro couldn't handle the silence anymore. He slows down to distance himself from the doctor who was leading the way so he can have a quiet one-on-one with the blonde who was tailing behind them.

Mindful of the fragile state of the man, he speaks softly.

Zoro

Hey….

Sanji looks up briefly behind his deep eyebags but pays him no mind. He continues his way forwards, focusing his eyes on the path before him. The swordsman walks at his pace side by side, careful not to get too close.

Zoro

Curls, what's really going on?

He receives no reply.

Zoro

I’m worried about you. You were clearly hurt.

Nothing.

Zoro

Whatever it is, let me help.

His persistence was rewarded with a small reaction. The blonde's body tenses and he hugs his cloak closer to him, trying to cover his body.

Zoro

Whatever it is, you know we can take it together. You know I'm here for you.

Sanji halts in his steps. He hunches his shoulders again to look smaller, which seems to be his newest habit today.

Zoro

Please…talk to me.

The blonde dips his head down further and his lips start to tremble. He looks like he's on the verge of crying once more.

Law notices the absence of his companions directly around him. He turns around and finds the two having a conversation downhill from where he was standing. His eye twitches at the swordsman who clearly didn’t heed his advice so he tries to keep things moving along for the sake of Sanji’s sanity.

Law

Oi! We need to keep moving! I want to get back on track before midday.

Zoro

Hold on a sec!

He returns his attention to the shivering man in front of him.

Zoro has tried many times to communicate with his own words in the past. Some are more successful than others. This time, he thought he would try to look for some wisdom someplace else. He remembers Nami's words that stuck to him, so he adds his own spin to it.

Zoro

Curls, I just want you to be alright. I’m here for you. You… you have to let me in.

Tentatively, he reaches out, his fingers stretching with intention to caress the man's distraught face.

Zoro

Otherwise…I don't know how I can help.

He gently strokes his cheek with the back of his finger.

Sanji suddenly recoils. His eyes snap wide open angrily from the contact and he takes a wide swipe with his clawed gauntlet towards him. For a split second, Zoro sees that his arms shone black from armament haki.

Sanji

DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!

The swordsman crouches down to the side just in time to dodge his attack. His ear was just shy from being completely cut clean off his face but a few strands of his trimmed hair flew into the wind and he received a deep gash across his right cheek.

Law

Holy shit–!

The wind dies around them as Zoro fumbles to the ground. Then suddenly, the earth shook, followed by deafening cracks and a powerful blast of wind as the entire span of the meadow behind the swordsman was sliced into five long streaks outwards, shaped like a swipe of a claw which carved deep through the earth. Trees, shrubs and colourful flowers all across the cliffside are uprooted and carried away from the force, destroying them and sending them flying off towards the White Sea. The ground sizzled and glowed from extreme heat at the sharpest point of the impact.

There was nothing left of what used to be the peaceful meadow but misshapen earth and smoke emanating from the trenches. Any grass that was left is practically crisped from the blast.

Zoro and Law stared at the man, both shocked and speechless at the now panting Pirate King. His furious panicked eyes turn into a watery one as tears begin to form at the corner of his fierce blue eyes. He screams in a high pitch shrill of a voice.

Sanji

WHY CAN'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE, ZORO?!

Stunned from his reaction, the swordsman blanks out. He opens his mouth to say something–anything–but can't seem to form any words. He closes it and gulps, feeling uncertain of what's to come next.

Law watches the scene in front of him quietly, careful not to drop his guard in case the blonde loses control again.

Sanji takes a moment to realise what he'd done. When he does, his face suddenly eases into an impassive one and he retracts the blades from his gauntlets with a flick of his wrists. With a clear and firm voice, he speaks.

Sanji

We're done, Zoro.

Zoro's eye widens and his body stiffens.

Sanji

I'm staying to help Traffy like I promised.

But after this, it'll be the last time you see me.

The last line had a hint of sorrow to it as his voice gradually broke. He walks away and passes the swordsman to make his way to Law.

Before he could get too far out of reach, Zoro stands and grabs his hand.

Zoro

No.

Sanji swiftly spins, his other hand raised for another strike but the swordsman quickly gets a hold of his wrist with his opposite hand before the blonde’s haki forms.

Sanji

What the fuck do you think you're doing?!

He tries to pull himself away but Zoro tightens his hold. The swordsman knew he was taking a risk and was being selfish–but he needed the man to know what he had to say.

Zoro

I love you.

Sanji stills his movements. It was his turn to stare at him dumbfoundedly. His eyes are blown wide and pupils dilated.

Zoro

If I hadn't been clear about it before, here it is now.

I'm madly in love with you.

And there’s not a force in the world that can change that.

The blonde’s eyes fill with tears once more as his lips tremble. He parts his lips as if to say something but is met with Zoro’s own clashing onto his. The sudden contact made him gasp and he was too stunned to move. His body reacted involuntarily as the sensation flowed from his lips right through to the tips of his limbs like it needed it, wanted it, and thirsted for it. After a brief pause, he melts into the kiss and closes his eyes. Tears flowed down his cheek freely.

Zoro releases his arms as he snakes his own around Sanji’s figure to pull him close. The blonde’s hands held onto his shoulders for balance. The swordsman's kisses were purposely shallow, not wanting to push any further than he already has. He peppers his lips with tender kisses, trying to show him love by way of action, careful to avoid the deep cut on one side of his lip. He notices that the blonde isn’t returning his affection–only taking it–but he continues on. This was about giving, and he wants him to know he’s willing to give all he’s got.

When Zoro pulls away, the blonde has a flushed face. He opens his eyes slowly as their gaze locks together. His cheeks were red and wet from his own tears. The swordsman feels relief as it was the first healthy colour on his skin that he’d seen on the man since they reunited that morning.

Slowly and tenderly, Sanji slides his hands from his shoulders to cup his face and pulls him close. Zoro hugs him around the small of his waist as he closes his eye.

The next thing he knows, the blonde yanks him back by the face then jerks their heads together to deliver a punishing headbutt against his forehead.

Zoro

ACK–!

The swordsman reels, but before he could catch his balance, Sanji grips his shirt by the shoulders to deliver a swift kick between his legs.

Law winces at the sight and hisses behind his teeth. A hand shoots up to cover his mouth.

Zoro grimaces and falls on his knees before dropping to the ground as he holds onto his groin. He rolls to the side, writhing in pain from both his head and lower regions.

Zoro

What the hell, Dartbrows?!

Sanji lights a cigarette then steps over him smoothly to walk away.

Sanji

I told you not to fuckin’ touch me.

The doctor approaches Zoro calmly. He watches the swordsman rock himself side to side, hissing, as if that will soothe the pain. When the man eventually stills, he offers a hand to him.

Law

Not going to lie…you kinda deserved that. A little.

Zoro furrows at him with furious eyes but takes his hand anyway. He gets pulled up onto his feet. His legs almost give out but he manages to stay up, albeit wobbling in place.

Zoro

Thanks, asshole. How is that supposed to make me feel better?

Law

It’s not. I meant to add insult to injury. Literally.

Zoro

Some doctor you are….

The swordsman growls at him. He attempts to straighten up but he can still feel the remnants of the impact pulsating through his body.

Law turns his attention to the blonde who is now standing way ahead of them, waiting for them to catch up.

Law

Good job, Zoro-ya.

Zoro

Wh-what?

Law

At least he’s… feeling things now.

Zoro follows Law’s eyes and sees Sanji standing uphill. The man is looking around, finally taking in the scenery as he smokes his cigarette. His blonde hair flow gracefully in the wind.

Zoro

Yeah… I guess.

The swordsman felt relief but his heart sank at remembering the blonde’s words. He wonders to himself if this truly is the end of the line. His gaze lowers sadly to the ground. He feels Law pat him on the shoulder a couple of times before walking past him to continue leading the way forwards.

Sanji paid close attention to the environment in front of him. His body was angled so half of his vision sees the untouched, peaceful meadow while the other half was the part he destroyed. He takes a long drag of his smoke and closes his eyes. He let the memories of the previous night flood into his mind one last time before he knew he’d have to stow it away to make way for the worst ahead of them.

—

Doflamingo drags Sanji’s naked form by the hair into the brig of the Numancia Flamingo which is docked discreetly in the outskirts of Skypiea, somewhere in the White Sea. His hands have been covered and bound tight with indestructible strings to restrain him. He’s fully aware that the Warlord knew his weaknesses and he liked to take advantage of it. His neck strained from the jerking movements, and his scalp felt like it would tear away from his own head from the Warlord's pull.

Sanji

D–Doffy–it hurts!

Doflamingo

Do you know how much trouble I had to go through to get Celestial Dragons off you and your precious swordsman's backs after the stunt you pulled at Sabaody?

He throws the blonde aggressively into a dark cell where Sanji lands hard against the wall before falling onto the cold hardwood floor. He tries to recover quickly by propping himself up, crawling backwards and away from the man.

Sanji

Doffy, please, let’s just ta–

The Warlord closes in on him and delivers a swift kick to the face to silence him, earning him a cut over his lips. He then forces the blonde's legs open wide by pinning him down using the same foot. He flicks his fingers in the air to bind the blonde's thighs against his calves. With a swirl of his own hand, strings hoist him off the ground, suspending his body from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

Sanji trembles at the painful binds and shivers at the chilly sensation between his legs. He coughs out blood from the back of his throat, nearly choking from it. He pants deep heavy breaths.

Sanji

Don't… do this…

Doflamingo

Do you know how much I had to give up to buy you? I couldn't even get full ownership.

Sanji

Wh–what? What do you mean buy…?

Doffy, what did you–AH!

Sanji grimaces at the sudden intrusion of Doflamingo’s long thick finger inside of him. His back arches involuntarily to try and get away from it. The other man wasn’t gentle, nor considerate. He pumped his digit in and out, loosening him in a rush with interest just for himself.

Doflamingo

Hmm…I see you’ve been busy already. Do I have Roronoa Zoro to thank for preparing you for me?

The blonde tenses. He gives him a nasty glare and spits at his face. Doflamingo stills.

Sanji

Go to hell, you prick.

Sanji knows that he was well and truly in trouble when he sees it–the Warlord’s grin and laughter which sends shivers up his spine and makes his hair stand on end. When he looks down, he sees the other man's bulging erection in his pants.

Doflamingo

I love it when you talk like that to me.

He starts fucking him with his fingers fast, adding in a second then third digit, one after another with very little patience.

Sanji hisses at the sting. It felt like his ring was on fire. He feels himself open up but it's happening too fast, too dry.

Sanji

What–what do you want from me?

Doflamingo hums, considering the question.

Doflamingo

A discussion for later. There's something that I need you to do.

For now…

Finally, he pulls out. Sanji’s legs twitch involuntarily but the lack of intrusion brings him a small amount of relief. He tries to stabilise himself by taking in long steady breaths but his heart was thumping like mad.

Sanji

Doffy… please don’t.

The Warlord unzips his trousers and whips out his overly large cock. With the blonde suspended from the ceiling, his dick is already perfectly aligned with his rim. He gives it a couple of pumps then slaps Sanji's entrance with it, teasing him.

The blonde snarls and attempts to break free from his binds by thrashing around, tossing and tilting his body however he can.

Doflamingo

You know that fighting me only gets me going.

Sanji

I will always fight if it’s against my will.

And the moment I break free, I will finally fuckin’ end you.

Doflamingo

Mmm… that’s it… talk just like that, my pet.

Doflamingo grips Sanji’s jaws with his large hand and forces him to look at him face to face, keeping his body still.

Doflamingo

But now, don’t move around too much like a good boy, and this’ll be better for the both of us.

Sanji feels him attempt to insert his dick so he jerks his own head back and bites his hand, breaking his skin.

Doflamingo

AH–! MOTHER FU–

The blonde gets dropped roughly on the floor. He winces at the soreness of his joints but he powers through the pain and crawls away with his elbows, dragging himself across the floor. Just before he could make his way on the other side of the bars, the Warlord’s foot stomps mere inches away from his face, cracking the floor underneath him. He stops in fear that his skull would be next.

Doflamingo

Clearly, you’ve been left running around at your own accord for far too long.

He releases the binds around his legs then reaches out to grab him by the crown of his hair, hoisting him off the ground. The blonde cries out in pain.

Doflamingo

So help me, I'll have my money's worth. You've cost me greatly.

Sanji

I didn’t ask to be sold and bought!

Doflamingo drops him to fall on his knees, then swings his hand across to slap him hard, almost knocking him out. When Sanji’s body flimsily collapses to the side, the Warlord catches him by the back of his neck with a bruising grip. This time, he turns him away from him. He flicks his wrist to raise and hold the blonde’s arms up by strings so his frail body hangs lifelessly in front of him. With his long pointed tongue, he gives him a wet lick from the nape of his neck, then up to his face where he bites his earlobe before whispering.

Doflamingo

I own you now, Pirate King. Your mind, your body and your soul.

Sanji can barely keep his eyes open at that point. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth from the inside. He coughs out blood again. Weakly, he replies as best as he can with a raspy voice.

Sanji

No.

Doflamingo pauses, raising a brow.

Sanji

I am…my own man.

I will always… fight for freedom–for myself and everyone who needs it. I only allied with you…to get Seastones and the names of people who deserve no mercy.

And…you. You are one of them.

When I get out of here, I will end you and your fuckin’ kingdom.

Doflamingo grins widely as he yanks his hair back. Sanji yelps at the sudden pain and motion. The Warlord buries his nose in his blonde locks then trails it down his neck, taking a long whiff of his scent.

Doflamingo

Mmm…you forget who's on the leash here, pet. Tell me, is this how you really want to play this?

Sanji

I will never stop fighting, Doflamingo. You can do all what you want with my body, but you can’t break me to thinking I’m yours to claim.

The Warlord pauses, then he chuckles that sinister, malicious laugh of his.

Doflamingo

I knew you’d say that.

He tosses something heavy on the floor. It clunks against the prison cell and slides, stopping directly in Sanji’s view. The blonde had to squint his eyes to try and work out the shape in the dark. When his sight adjusts, his eyes fill with horror and his jaw slacks open as he recognises a large chunk of Niji’s helmet before him.

Doflamingo licks his pointed tongue into his ear which sends chills throughout his body. He watches the blonde gape at the item, satisfied with his reaction.

Doflamingo

Let’s try this again…shall we?

The Warlord waves his hand and Sanji is fully released from all his binds. He drops to the floor on his fours. The blonde looks up to the piece of helmet once more, his mind running through different terrible scenarios of what may have happened.

Doflamingo

I will keep it nice and clear for you.

You do what I say, and I don’t kill your brother.

Sanji

N–no…no, you wouldn’t.

Doflamingo

Do you really want to test me?

Sanji freezes at that. After a moment of silence, his head dips down in defeat as his gaze turns to the side.

Doflamingo kneels directly behind him. He snakes his hands over the blonde's back then up to his neck to wrap his hands around it. While choking him, he pulls him up onto his own thigh to align dick against the rim of his ass.

Doflamingo

Now, let’s see how much you’ve learnt.

When I say, suck my dick, you say…?

The blonde’s lips quiver and his body trembles madly as fear slowly overtakes him. He shuts his eyes tight, knowing full well that the next words he will say is going to change his entire life forever. With a broken voice, he replies.

Sanji

Yes, Doffy.

Doflamingo inserts his cock into his tight entrance. Sanji grips onto the steel prison bars in front of him. He grits his teeth, trying to endure the pain as quietly as he can, not wanting to give the man any more satisfaction than he already has.

Doflamingo

When I say, jerk yourself off in front of the Levely, you say…?

The Warlord continues pushing himself inside, slowly but forcefully. With barely any preparation, Doflamingo’s monstrous size stretches his walls and tears his rim. He feels blood trickle down his violently shaking legs. Sanji’s eyes start welling up in tears from the pain. With a half sobbing voice, he replies.

Sanji

Y–yes…Doffy.

Doflamingo

Good boy.

Then he slams into him almost at full length. The blonde screams and leans his forehead against the prison bars.

Doflamingo

Now…I want you to think of your swordsman.

Sanji

Wh–what…?

Doflamingo thrusts inside him hard and deep once more, trying to forcefully fit his whole cock inside him, causing the blonde to cry out loud.

Doflamingo

You heard me.

I want you to think of his dick deep inside you.

Sanji

Doffy, please! I don’t want to think of him this way–

Doflamingo starts a brutal rhythm of slow but deep thrusts. Sanji screams at every push. He tried to hold back his voice at one point but was punished with a stinging spank, causing him to yelp out. The impact bruises his skin.

Doflamingo

Tell me what the swordsman does to you that you like the most.

Sanji’s tears start flowing. He sniffs once to try and compose himself, reminding himself that this is for his brother.

Doflamingo

Talk, Sanji.

Sanji

I like it when…AH–when he plays with my nipples….

Satisfied with his answer, Doflamingo increases his pace. The Warlord's large hands snake from his neck down to his front and plays with his pecs, teasing and pulling his nipples.

Sanji

Do–Doffy…you're too big. It hurts–it really hurts!!!

Doflamingo

Keep talking. You’ve only said one thing so far. How do you like taking him?

Sanji's breath hitches as he thinks of how the swordsman had fucked him during the last several weeks they had been together.

Sanji

I like it–ah–when I’m on a table and–he goes down on me–before we–AH–DOFFY, NO, PLEASE!!!

The Warlord leans forwards and drops Sanji down on the floor while keeping his legs wrapped around his own hips. He splays a hand over his back, pinning the blonde’s upper body onto the cold surface. The changed angle deepens the penetration in which Sanji begins sobbing out loud. A pool of blood forms onto the hardwood below them. Doflamingo’s pace becomes fast and relentless.

Doflamingo

Give me more, my pet. Tell me more.

His own voice hitches as he nears his climax. His breath quickens as he fucks into the blonde senselessly.

Sanji feels himself peak as well. With every ounce and fibre of his being, he tries to resist.

Sanji

I–I…like it when I get to look into his eyes when he cums. When I call his name, I really want him to call mine too–

Doflamingo

Fuck, yes. When I cum in you, I want you to scream his name.

Sanji

P–Please–please, no–

Doflamingo tips forward slightly and releases his back to grip a bruising hold onto his hips, pushing hard into him with every thrust. His full length pounds painfully deep. When Sanji looks up, he realises that had been forced down on this position so he can see the part of Niji’s helmet that the Warlord had somehow taken into possession.

Doflamingo groans as he peaks.

Doflamingo

Shit… I'm gonna…

It all felt wrong but the blonde steels his heart.

Sanji

Hah–Z–Zoro… Zoro…

Zoro

Sanji, I'm gonna cum…ah–Sanji…

The swordsman’s raspy gentle voice echoes in the room. It grounds Sanji–comforts him–reassures him. He eases into the new sensation, craving his affection.

Sanji

Make a mess of me, baby…please. Say my name, say it.

Zoro

F-Fuck–Sanji… Sanji…

Sanji

Zoro…!

Doflamingo cries out the blonde's name as he pumps into him, spilling a generous load deep inside. The blonde follows shortly, producing barely anything prior to his earlier activities with–

Sanji's lips quiver in terror as he realises that his own mind had betrayed him. It had swapped the devil himself with an illusion of his precious Marimo. He can still feel the Warlord pumping into him.

Doflamingo pulls out with a slow guttural growl, causing the blonde to moan at the sudden loss of his length inside him. He feels the mix of the man's overflowing juices and his own blood spill down his thighs as the Warlord releases him from his hold.

Doflamingo

Now…wasn't that fun?

Sanji scampers on the floor away from him. He sits up, leaning against the prison bars for support.

Sanji

You fucking asshole.

Doflamingo

My dear…

Doflamingo stands tall and drops his large feather coat on the ground. He strips off his shirt then drops his pants on the floor.

Doflamingo

We're just getting started.

—

Voice

Mr. Prince-ya.

Hey…let's keep moving.

Sanji forces his eyes to open slowly as he feels the chilly wind on his face. He almost reels as he returns his attention back to reality. When he looks to his side, he sees Law next to him. Down the hill, the swordsman had kept his distance, his gaze focused at the misshapen land of what used to be the meadow.

Sanji

Law…

Law

Yes…?

Sanji

Are you sure you want to keep going?

Law narrows his eyes suspiciously at that.

Law

Is there something you want to tell me?

Sanji takes a long drag of his smoke, thinking of the right response. When he breathes out, he walks past him.

Sanji

No. I’m just checking.

Law

I see.

The swordsman eventually joins Law and they watch the blonde walk ahead of them. The doctor whispers quietly.

Law

He’d been broken.

Zoro

…I know.

Law

Get ready for anything.

Zoro clenches his fists. He holds onto Wado to stabilise himself but he allows anger to flow through his veins.

Zoro

I am.

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